


It's Always Winter in St. Petersburg

by Harlanhardway (Target44)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate History - Queer Friendly, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Imperial Russia, It's okay to be Takei, M/M, Romanov AU, Slow Burn, Slow Burn Is Slow, and I mean really excessive, excessive endnotes, you were warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-12 15:16:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 49,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10493724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Target44/pseuds/Harlanhardway
Summary: The first time Armitage Khaslik met the future Tsar of Russia, the young prince was standing outside the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood, shivering into the marten fur collar of his overcoat and squinting into the wind as it came off the Griboyedov channel.Kylo is the heir to the throne of Imperial Russia.  Hux is working his way up from nothing on the streets of St. Petersburg.  There is war brewing in Europe and the communist party is gaining ground with the proletariat, but Hux has plans and nothing gets in the way of Hux's plans.





	1. The Overcoat

**Author's Note:**

> This is what I will call historically-based fiction, which means a lot of it is based on real historical figures, places and events, but I am fast and loose with a lot of details. I am neither a historian, nor Russian, nor a Russian scholar so please forgive any blatant inaccuracies. Some of them are deliberate because I thought they made for interesting details but didn't fit into the right timeframe. I will try to include those in the end notes.
> 
> Most notable change: homophobia is not a thing. I don't want to write about it so in this alternate Earth homosexuality is treated like a marriage with fertility problems, not necessarily encouraged, especially in the higher classes, but not taboo either. Also, I turned down the dial on sexism a bit, just to give myself some breathing room for female characters.
> 
> Special thanks to my lovely beta reader MargaretKire [mothdustmouth](https://mothdustmouth.tumblr.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: extremely brief allusion to prostitution

  
  
The first time Armitage Khaslik met the future Tsar of Russia, the young prince was standing outside the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood, shivering into the marten fur collar of his overcoat and squinting into the wind as it came off the Griboyedov channel.  
  
It was December of the Gregorian year 1899 and most of Europe was preparing to herald in the new century.  St. Petersburg had already celebrated the changeover on September first with the beginning of the liturgical calendar, a date Armitage had also celebrated as his twelfth birthday.  He had no reliable source to confirm that it was, in fact, his birthday, or even that he was twelve, but it suited him to have the whole country celebrating on the day of his birth.  
  
He had spent the better part of the afternoon on Nevskiy Prospekt collecting discarded newspapers and cigarette butts and taking bets for the Dumanovsky brothers.  The people of St. Petersburg loved to gamble, from the lowest drunk all the way up to, if rumor was to be believed, the royal consort, Han Solodnikov himself.  The problem had become such that Tsarina Leia Organeva had been forced to issue an edict prohibiting the playing of baccarat, including in private houses.  This had little to no effect on Armitage's business, and, again according to what was said about the royal consort, it seemed to have little effect on those in higher stations as well.  
  
This time, the news of the day was the upcoming royal birth and bets were being laid on all aspects thereof.  Gender, birth date, birth time, live or dead, it seemed all of St. Petersburg had something riding on the appearance of the next royal and if they didn't, it was Armitage's business to see that they soon did.  
  
The Church on Spilled Blood was being built to commemorate the place of Tsar Alexander II's assassination.  Two bombs had gone off, the first driving the Tsar from his bulletproof carriage and the second thrown directly at his feet when he emerged.  He survived long enough to be brought to the Winter Palace and to receive Last Rites and Communion, but with his legs torn away and his stomach ripped open on the street, it was fair to say that the church had been aptly named.  It had been under construction for longer than Armitage had been alive but it seemed people thought Alexander II's ghost might be able to lend some insight into the life of his granddaughter and, more specifically, the outcome of her pregnancy.  No one would think of turning to Alexander III, the Tsarina's own father, for guidance on their wagers.  A homosexual with only one blood offspring certainly wouldn't understand the secrets of childbirth.  People could be sentimental like that, or was it superstitious?  Either way, it was a good place to pick up bets.  
  
Fingering the cigarette butts in his pocket, Armitage rounded the corner at the edge of the Mikhailovsky gardens, when he spied the boy whom he would much later come to know as Tsarevich Benjamin Kenobi Organic.  The boy was standing on the channel embankment, squinting out into the darkness, clearly oblivious to being watched.  It was only four o'clock, but it was the eve of the winter solstice and already a dark night.  He could not have been there long.  Armitage knew this in the same way that one knows a Christmas goose, waddling unattended down the market square at noon, could not have been waddling there long.  
  
Armitage eyed the boy's beautiful sable fur hat and ankle-length overcoat.  His own coat was also ankle length, but with a considerably different cut.  It was a man's coat, thick and woolen, and he had had to roll up the sleeves three times so the cuffs would only reach his fingertips.  He had felt lucky to get it at the beginning of the winter. The collar was cat fur, and it cut the wind nicely, but there was always something disconcerting about knowing that the last owner of one's coat had most likely died wearing it.  He had nothing to confirm this suspicion, but the likelihood was high.  
  
Armitage approached the boy.  
  
"What are you doing?"  Social grace was not among his strong points.  
  
The boy glanced down, frowning slightly as if surprised he was being addressed, before going back to gazing into the distance.  
  
"You are going to be eaten."  Armitage continued.  
  
"Excuse me?" This time when the boy looked down, both eyebrows raised, he did not look away.  
  
"It's Korochun," the winter solstice, "and you are lost and alone and looking like a Christmas goose.  If the spirits don't get you, someone else will.  You are going to be eaten."  
  
The boy hopped down off the embankment and peered up at Armitage with big brown eyes.  He could not have been more than seven or eight, slightly shorter with a narrow face and a long nose.  The wind had pulled a few errant black curls out from under his hat.  
  
"Very well," he said, sticking that prominent nose in the air and turning on his heel, "you will be my guide and ensure I do not get eaten.  Take me to Peter's Square, I need to see the Bronze Horseman."  
  
"What, why?"  Well, that had gone rather more quickly than expected.  Armitage had come to either rob, con, or negotiate, and while the robbery was probably the most profitable option, Armitage was not keen on assaulting parties of unknown social standing this close to the Admiralty.  
  
The Christmas goose continued walking.  
  
"You are going the wrong way."  
  
He turned around and stomped back towards Armitage.  
  
"You will take me to the Bronze Horseman.  You will."  Leaning forward, his jaw clenched and his hands balled at his sides as he pursed his lips into an angry pout.  "You will take me there and for your services I will give you my hat."  
  
Armitage eyed the hat appreciatively. He nodded, "Done," and, shoving his hands in his pockets, set off in the same direction the boy had been headed.  
  
============================================  
  
The walk to Peter's square took the better part of an hour with Armitage choosing to avoid Nevsky Prospect, and instead to cut through the Palace square and walk down the bank of the Neva River.  The wind coming off the water whipped around them and he huddled down inside his jacket, tears freezing to his lashes as his eyes watered from the cold.  But the street was empty, there was no one to see his companion's fine leather boots and fur coat and question what such a person could be doing out in this weather and in such poor company.  
  
Eventually they made it to the square and went to stand in front of the Bronze Horseman.  Peter I, also known as Peter the Great, founder of the Russian Empire and builder of St. Petersburg, the five-time great grandfather of the current Tsarina of Russia, stared down at them from 45 feet up.  The Thunder Stone, a massive granite monolith, crested like a wave that Peter the Great has galloped up, the house rearing at the edge as he reached westward in triumph towards the Neva River and past it, to the Baltic Sea.  
  
The boy, who Armitage had taken to thinking of as the little goose, glared up at the immortalized Tsar.  The moment stretched on and as Armitage felt the cold began to sink deeper into his bones, he began to wonder if he could have his new hat now, and if it would be worth sticking around to see what happened next.  
  
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the boy hauled back and kicked at the stone base.  
  
"Fuck you, you conniving, godless, bastard!"  He clawed at the stone with his soft leather gloves, continuing to cuss and shout profanities maligning Peter I's character and parentage.  Rushing around to the backside of the monument, he climbed up the massive boulder, and then onto the horse's rearing back until he could sit backwards, straddling it's neck and staring into the cold bronze hearts that make up Peter the Great's eyes.  
  
Armitage knew them to be hearts because he had climbed up the statue once himself the previous summer.  He had been teaching himself to read using old newspapers, discarded copies of the _Sovremennik_ and the _Polarstern_ , when the _Sovremennik_ began running a column publishing short stories in weekly installments.  He had just found a paper containing the last bit of, _The Tale of How Ivan Ivanovich Quarreled with Ivan Nikiforovich_ , and was filled to bursting with a newfound sense of accomplishment.  He had imagined that that must be how kings felt all the time and had climbed up into the lap of Peter the Great to see if he was right.  He's still not sure about the feelings of kings, but he did find out about the hearts, which was almost as good.  
  
Having worn himself out pounding and shouting into the chest of Peter the Great, the boy finally began to slide down from the bronze statue.  Armitage watched with a certain amount of trepidation as he shakily descended.  Half way down the pedestal, his unsteady feet lost their grip on the slick, icy granite and he slid down the last ten feet on his back, landing in sad little pile at the base of a statue.  He pushed himself to his feet.  Exhausted and dejected, all the anger gone along with seemingly also the pride and arrogance of when they first met, he turned to wander towards the Admiralty.  
  
The Admiralty made up southeast side of the square and it's grand entrance was flanked by two great marble lions.  The boy seated himself on one and stared mullishly up at Peter the Great from this new vantage point,  his eyes red rimmed, with tear tracks still fresh on his pale white cheeks.  
  
Armitage approached cautiously, maybe the boy was crazy.  He had known many crazy people before, but never one quite so rich looking.  "What was that about?"  
  
The boy shrugged and hunched lower into the collar of his coat.  
  
Armitage waited, staring at the boy who, in turn, was staring past him at the bronze horseman.  
  
After a few long moments the boy lowered his gaze, burying his face as far into his coat as possible, until only his eyes peaked out in a thin strip of exposed skin between his hat and collar.  
  
"He won't talk to me."  He mumbled, almost inaudibly.  
  
"What?"  
  
Brown eyes flick up somewhat defiantly, then back down, "He won't talk to me," he repeated, this time biting the words out angrily.  
  
Armitage blinked slowly, taking in the sight of the boy, seated on the stone lion, then raised both eyebrows in surprise.  "Peter," he says, almost disbelievingly, "you're trying to talk to Peter, like in the poem, _The Bronze Horseman_."  
  
The boy remained silent, not refuting anything.  
  
"What were you even hoping he would say?"  
  
More silence.  
  
Armitage continued to look at the boy in a kind of horrified disbelief that slowly turned to, if not understanding, then at least acceptance.  He turned to look at Peter I, then back to the boy.  Life can be strange, it can make you do stranger things just to feel normal again, or because you're angry, or sad, or just because.  Sometimes you don't even know why you're doing them.  
  
"Where are you galloping, proud horse, and where will those hooves plunge and trample?  Fate's mighty master!  Was not this how you, with curb of iron halting her flight, reined Russia back from vaulting into the bottomless abyss?"  He too had read Pushkin.  
  
The whole day had put Armitage in a melancholy mood and, on a romantic whim, he walked over to the other stone lion and climbed on it's back, matching the boy's posture and staring out in solidarity at the figure on the rearing horse.  
  
==========================  
  
Armitage startled awake as he felt himself list to the side, almost sliding from his seat.  His legs were fully numb, the cold stone having robbed them of any warmth and he could feel the cold start to seep into his chest, making it difficult to breath.  He was no longer shivering and it took a frighteningly long time to decide that he needed to start moving again.  They need to start moving again.  He glanced over at the figure of the boy, sitting parallel to him on the other lion, not moving.  How long had they been sitting there?  He slipped off the lion's back and hobbled over to the boy on stiff legs.  
  
His joints hurt and everything took more effort than it should.  He shook the boy, roughly.  Talking felt too difficult, if not impossible.  Eventually big brown eyes turn and blink glassily up at him.  He continued to pull and push and prod until they both were on their feet, stumbling like drunks across the square.  
  
They crossed to the north side of the Neva delta, past the Peter and Paul Fortress and left down Kamennoostrovsky Prospekt.  It took nearly two hours for them to finally stagger through the Hay Market district to Kolomna where Armitage lived with his mother in a fifth-floor apartment the size of a not overly generous closet.  Only as they collapsed through the door of the apartment did it occur to Armitage that he could have just left the boy there in the square.  Taken his hat, and maybe his coat as well, and been done with it.  He glanced over.  The boy stood hunched in on himself in the center of the room.  His beautiful coat was rumpled and dirty from his assault on and subsequent fall from the Peter I monument.  His hat was crooked from where he had pulled it down tighter against the wind on one side and there was a dirty scratch down the side of this nose, most likely also from his fight with the bronze horseman.  He looked altogether lost and pathetic and not unlike a stray cat.  
  
Well, Armitage thought idly to himself as he checked the coal-burning stove, I suppose I did always want a cat.  
  
"The oven is out, stay here, I'll be right back."  
  
The boy nodded slightly as Armitage reached around him to grab the fire pot and stepped back out the door.  Returning shortly with a hot coal from the neighbor across the hall, he started a fire in the oven then grabbed the water pitcher from off the small table under the window.  The apartment was sparsely furnished, there was just space enough for a small table and two chairs under the only window.  The stove sat in the interior corner opposite the door.  Next to it was a small counter with a water basin for washing and bins for storage underneath.  A bed and an old wooden trunk were pushed against the opposite wall.  
  
"I have to run out for a minute.  Stay here," he repeated, "I'll be right back."  
  
He wasn't sure why it had abruptly became important for him that the boy be there when he get back.  Perhaps it was like picking up a cat stray.  A stray cat on the street is just a stray, but once it's in your home, suddenly it's your cat and you feel the need to keep it clean and feed it and wrap it in blankets and pet it until it purred in contentment.  
  
Feeling newly invigorated for having made it home, he rushed back down the stairs with the water jug, and jogged across the street to the Dumanovsky household to drop off the bets that he had collected that day and collect his commission.  He immediately used part of it to buy fresh blini with plum preserves from their mother, Mrs. Dumanovska.  Part of him felt like her side business was a bit of a racket, but then again, seeing who her sons were, it was definitely a racket.  However, the pancakes were delicious and fresh, and not really any more expensive than buying them from anyone else would be.  He wrapped them in newsprint and kept them warm under his coat as he hurried back up the street.  
  
Back in his apartment building, he stopped in the communal water closet to fill the water pitcher before heading up the stairs.  The appartment was slightly warmer when he got in, the coals had apparently caught and the stove was heating up.  He filled the water kettle and set it on the stove to boil before measuring two spoons of tea into the smaller tea kettle, filling it and setting it on the stove as well.  His stray had moved.  He had pushed a chair over to the stove and was huddled up in it, wrapped in a blanket he had pilfered off the bed and leaning in close to the stove. Close enough that Armitage was fairly certain the boy must have been hugging it moments before he came in.  
  
"Here."  Armitage pulled the small table and second chair over to join the boy by the stove and laid out the newspaper-wrapped packet of blini.  "Though really, you should be the one buying us dinner."  
  
Brown eyes narrowed at him from under the blanket the boy had pulled like a cloak over his head.  The boy carefully removed his gloves and rolled up a thin pancake with a little bit of jam.  It disappeared into the folds of his blanket, presumably to be eaten.  "I already said, I'm giving you my hat.  After that you can sell it and buy all the pancakes you want."  
  
Armitage fought back a smile, then shrugged and began eating himself.  A cat indeed.  
  
After a short masticatory intermission during which three more pancakes had disappeared into the blanket, the boy peered around the room.  "Does anyone else live here?"  He asked.  
  
Armitage nodded, "My mother."  
  
"Where is she?"  The boy eyed the single bed against the wall.  
  
"She works nights."  
  
The boy turned a skeptical eye on Armitage, who stared back, daring him to say anything.  He didn't.  Another pancake disappeared.  
  
When the last of the pancakes were gone and the table pushed back against the wall, Armitage poured the water into the basin by the stove, adding a little hot water from the kettle and started, at long last, to pull off his boots.  
  
"You can wash up first," he said, gesturing towards the basin.  "I don't have any spare clothes for you though, you'll have to sleep in whatever you have on."  
  
Straining upward to peer into the water basin from his seat by the fire before walking over and giving it an investigative sniff, the boy looked at it consideringly.  Then, having seemingly found it acceptable, shrugged the blanket off his shoulders and decisively started stripping out of his winter layers.  Off came his boots, overcoat, hat, tie, and jacket, to reveal long, gangly limbs and a head of disheveled dark hair.  His curls clung to the back of his neck and did absolutely nothing to disguise a pair of comically large ears.  This would all have been rather endearing if it weren't for what he was wearing underneath his layers of coats and jackets.  The distinctive striped undershirt, bell bottom pants and wide collared tunic of his sailor suit was so nauseatingly cute it was almost painful to look at.  
  
Armitage chose not to comment, instead continuing to shake out and put away his own torn and ratty clothes until the boy was finished.  Then, taking the cigarette butts he had collected that day out of his pocket and storing them in a tin to be dealt with later, he pulled off his hat and shirt and bent over the water basin for his own turn at washing up.  
  
"Oh!"  
  
"Hm?"  He turned slightly to see where the boy was looking at him, huddled up in bed, his face pink and freshly scrubbed.  
  
"Your hair, it's red."  
  
"Yeah."  He turned back to scrub behind his ears.  
  
"Is that why you're so dirty?"  
  
"What?!"  Armitage whipped around and glared at the boy.  
  
"I mean, I didn't notice before.  You had your hat on and coal dust was rubbed in all the bits by your face."  
  
"Oh.  Yeah."  Armitage dried his face and pulled his night shift over his head.  He poured tea into two cups, cutting one of them with water from the kettle.  "How strong do you drink your tea?"  
  
"Very."  
  
He poured more tea into the second cup, adding just a splash of hot water, then passes it to the boy.  "Well red hair is bad luck, isn't it?  And I collect bets for the bookies sometimes so," he shrugged and climbed into bed beside the boy before reaching out to turn down the lamp a little.  "It's just easier this way."  
  
"Hmm."  The boy hummed and they both sat sipping their tea for awhile in silence.  
  
After a while of being lost in thought the boy came back into himself and blinked over at Armitage consideringly.  "Who are you, anyway?"  
  
Armitage raised an eyebrow and retorted, "Well, who are you?"  
  
"I asked you first."  
  
"Armitage Khaslik"  
  
"That's it?"  
  
"Some people call me Hux."  Armitage looked over at the boy warningly.  He had no patronymic.  He could make one up, this boy didn't know him from Adam, but he refused to on principle.  "Your turn, who are you?"  
  
The boy looked off to the side, clearly trying to think of a fake identity to respond with.  Then his eyes lit up slightly and he looked back over at Armitage, smiling smugly to himself as he said, "I'm Kylo Ren."  
  
Hux threw back his head and laughed.  
  
He plucked the empty teacup out of the newly christened Kylo Ren's hands and climbed out of bed to put their cups away and dampen down the stove, smiling and shaking his head and laughing to himself all the while.  He paused before getting back in bed, then turned to grab the boy's coat and threw it over top as an extra layer.  After extinguishing the lamp and climbing into bed, he finally turned back to Kylo.  
  
The boy's face was now hidden in the darkness, but Armitage had seen it to be beet red not a moment before.  He smiled.  "Well, Tsarevich, have you caught the firebird yet?"  
  
He could hear the boy gasp beside him, "But that ballet just came out this season, and in Paris, and you're only..." he paused.  
  
"Only, what?"  Armitage challenged, but he was not particularly upset.  He was more pleased with himself for being able to turn the tables on the self-satisfied little lordling.  "I read the newspaper, there's always a writeup on the Ballets Russes.  You shouldn't underestimate people so much."  He replied as loftily as he could manage.  
  
Kylo squirmed, uncomfortable in his embarrassment and unsure of what to do.  
  
"It's okay," Armitage turned over onto his back and shifted closer for warmth, "I like it.  It's a good story.  You can be Kylo Ren."  
  
Kylo didn't say anything more, but when Armitage woke up briefly in the middle of the night, Kylo had crawled almost on top of him, his left arm curled around Armitage's middle and his head is tucked up under his chin.  Armitage took a moment to resettle, nuzzling his face in the soft curls, and then drifted back to sleep.  
  
============================================  
  
When he awoke the next morning he was alone.  Kylo was gone, but when he reached out to pull back the covers, Armitage's fingers sank into the thick fur of the boy's coat that was still covering him.  Kylo had left, taking with him Armitage's battered old overcoat and wool hat, but leaving his own behind in their stead.  
  
Hux sat for a while, petting the luxurious fur, marten and sable, feeling it under his fingers and looking out into the weak grey light of dawn.  Maybe he should get a cat.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russia used the Julian calendar until 1918. Until 1700 they started the new year on Sept. 1 with the start of their liturgical year.
> 
> The edict against baccurate was real.
> 
> The history of the Russian monarchy remains accurate within my story up to Alexander III, then Leia Organeva (hopefully the Russianization is not too painful for people) takes the throne instead of Nicholas II (because there is no Nicholas II in my story).
> 
> The _Sovremennik_ and _Polarstern_ were newspapers in St. Petersburg, but neither were in publication anymore by 1900.
> 
>  _The Tale of How Ivan Ivanovich Quarreled with Ivan Nikiforovich_ , and _The Overcoat_ are short stories by Nikolai Gogol (1809-52) In _The Tale of..._ two neighbors fight over petty shit and call the cops on each other and are repeatedly unable to reconcile. It's all pretty farcical. In _The Overcoat_ a guy buys a really nice overcoat, people start treating him with more respect, inviting him to things, etc. because of it, then the coat is stolen from him on his way home. He dies shortly thereafter and haunts St. Petersburg stealing people's overcoats. 
> 
> _The Bronze Horseman_ is an incredibly famous poem by Alexander Pushkin (1837). A poor young man, Evgenii, survives the great flood of 1824 by sitting on tip of one of the marble lions on Peter's Square. The flood destroyed most of the city including the home of the woman he love (she presumably is dead). He goes crazy and curses the statue of Peter, which comes to life and and starts chasing Evgenii. Evgenii is later found dead floating on the water.
> 
> Blini are thin Russian pancakes, sort of a cross between a pancake and a crepe. They can be sweet or savory and are a kind of street food.
> 
>  _The Firebird_ is a ballet by Igor Stravinsky, written for the 1910 Paris season of Sergei Diaghilev's Ballets Russes based on an old Russian folk tale. In it, Prince Ivan (not Kylo Ren, obviously) captures the Firebird. She begs for her life and he frees her. In return she gives him a feather that will summon her if he is in need. Prince Ivan meets thirteen princesses that are under the spell of the Immortal Koshei, falls in love with one and summons the firebird to help him free them. The firebird put Koschei and his minions to sleep then shows Ivan the egg in which Koschei has hidden his soul. Ivan destroys the egg, killing Koschei and freeing the princesses.
> 
> Holy Shit, you read all my notes, I love you!!! Come hang out, we'll be friends :)  
> [harlanhardway](https://harlanhardway.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also, there is now a great painting of Hux and Ren from the beginning of this chapter that you can check out [here](http://cylin-aka-ankamo.tumblr.com/post/163724966626/its-always-winter-in-st-petersburg-by) by [Cylin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cylin/pseuds/Cylin) it is, no joke, exactly what I imagined when I wrote this, so go take a look!


	2. The Little House in Kolomna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kylo comes back and everyone gets a little bit older.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: allusions to prostitution (non graphic), allusions to an STI-related death (non graphic), description of a massacre (non-graphic), Russia-typical racism (I would say period-typical but *looks around at the world* let's not kid ourselves)
> 
> Also, as before, please excuse all intended and unintended historical and cultural inaccuracies. The most notable change is that in this alternate Earth homosexuality is fairly normalized. It's like being in an infertile marriage: not taboo but not necessarily encouraged, especially in the higher classes. Also, I toned down the period-typical sexism.
> 
> My lovely beta reader MargaretKire ([mothdustmouth](https://mothdustmouth.tumblr.com/) on tumblr) continues to be lovely and everyone should go check out her writing. She didn't know me from Lindsey Graham when she offered to help with this and has been immensely supportive through the whole process.

  
  
Armitage had expected to never see the boy again, after that day, and so was very much surprised to find him leaning against the door of his apartment when he came home one evening several months later.  Kylo Ren was shivering and clutching himself tightly.  He was caked in mud and only a light jacket covered his ruined sailor suit.  His head was bare, his hair dirty and matted like he had been rolling around in a refuse pile, and when he looked up, a bruise could be seen forming under one eye.  There was a big raw patch on his right cheek, ground in with bits of gravel.  
  
Armitage unlocked the door and stepped over him into the apartment.  "Well, little Tsarevich, did Peter chase you through the streets this time, or was it someone else?"  Kylo jumped up and immediately followed him in.  
  
"I was robbed."  He sounded shocked and maybe a little outraged, lower lip trembling and arms wrapped around himself, still clutching at his thin jacket.  
  
Armitage rolled his eyes, opening the stove to see if there were any live coals left.  There were, so he began cleaning it out and laying it fresh, keeping the hot coals insulated in the back of the oven.  "Here," he reached out to grab the water pitcher and hand it to Kylo, "the water closet's on the ground floor."  He turned back to the stove.  "It's a miracle they left you with your boots, or really any clothes at all."  
  
Much to his surprise, Kylo obediantly headed out into the hallway with the pitcher, leaving Armitage to shuffle around the apartment, putting his things away and waiting for the room to warm up.  He pulled the table and chairs up to the stove the same as before and started preparing the kettles for tea.  Kylo returned shortly and, dropping the pitcher onto the table, promptly pulled two blankets off the bed.  He removed his boots and proceeded to cocoon himself into the chair closest to the stove, pulling his feet up onto the seat and hugging his knees against his chest.  
  
Hux had brought warm pelmeni home for his dinner, but with two of them eating, the dumplings were soon gone, so he pulled out the few corners of stale bread and bit of jam that he had been saving for his breakfast.  With the stove now warming the room, they dipped the bread in their tea, allowing the ends to soften, then spread them with jam to be nibbled on.  
  
When that too was gone, Armitage filled the water basin with warm water and, taking a square handkerchief that had been hanging over the stove, pulled his chair up to Kylo's and reached out to inspect his face.  Kylo allowed it with a look of reluctant acceptance.  
  
As Hux dabbed at the cuts on his face and wiped it free of grit, he ran his other hand lightly over Kylo's hair.  "I can give you a comb to get out the worst of this, but it would be best to not wash it right before bed."  Dropping his hand to additionally inspect the wide, grime-caked collar of Kylo's ruined sailor suit, he continued  "We can shake this out the window in the morning, but I don't know that it will dry in time if we try to wash it now."  When he was finished with Kylo's face, he handed him a comb, as promised.  Then, deciding that this time he was the cleaner of the two, passed over his nightshirt as well.  
  
A few minutes later, they were both lying in bed, faces and necks freshly scrubbed, the stove damped down and the lights out.  Armitage was staring up at the ceiling, wondering if he should ask about Kylo's sudden appearance on his doorstep when the boy interrupted his thoughts.  
  
"You weren't wearing the coat."  
  
"Hmm?"  it took Armitage a second to understand his meaning, "Oh.  Well of course I wasn't, that would have been an excellent way of getting robbed.  I sold it as soon as I could, along with the hat.  As promised, it has kept me in blini ever since."  He paused.  "You should do the same if you plan on making this..." he paused again, "this coming here, a habit."  
  
Kylo huffed out a breath through his nose and snuggled his head into Hux's shoulder, saying nothing.  
  
===============================================  
  
After that it became a sort of routine.  Kylo, having most likely long since disposed of Hux's old things from his first visit, had somehow acquired a wool hat and military overcoat that looked to have been in fairly good repair before being drug behind a horse and jumped on a few times.  He would show up in his little disguise, sitting on the doorstep like a stray cat waiting to be let in.  Then, come morning, he would be gone.  Sometimes he would leave something behind, like a pair of gloves or a pocket comb.  On rare occasions he would take something with him.  
  
These visits continued every few weeks for the rest of the winter and into the spring, but by the time summer rolled around and Armitage hadn't seen Kylo for several months, he assumed that that was the end of it.  His stray had found somewhere else to go, someone else to feed him.  It wasn't until September, shortly after the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, when the royal family returned to their winter residence at the Hermitage, that Kylo appeared once more on Hux's doorstep.  That night Armitage ran across the street to the Dumanovsky household and bought all the pirozhki he could buy along with a jar of kvas.  Later, sitting by the stove across from Kylo, eating meat pies and drinking rye beer, he felt warm all the way to the tips of his toes and his cheeks hurt from where he had bit them open trying not to smile.  
  
Kylo's life outside Hux's apartment was something they never talked about, but it soon became clear to Armitage that his family traveled with the royal court. His visits would always coincide with royal family's residence at the Hermitage, without exception.  To Hux though, he remained the little Tsarevich Kylo Ren and, if he was being quite honest with himself, Hux wasn't sure he wanted to know more.  He had begun thinking of it as something of an unspoken agreement on both their parts not to pry into each other's background.  This proved to be not quite true however, as on the fourth winter of their acquaintance, it seemed to suddenly occur to Kylo that Armitage had not, in fact, sprung fully formed from the streets of St. Petersburg as he had previously assumed.  
  
It was the first time they had seen each other that winter and Kylo was glaring up at Armitage with a certain amount of disgruntlement.  Armitage had always been a little taller, but he had gone through a growth spurt over the summer and was now quite a lot taller.  Also, his voice had changed.  He was fifteen and beginning to grow into a man and Kylo was trying to decide whether to hate him for it or not.  
  
He glanced around the apartment after being let in, things had changed there as well.  "These belong to your mother," he said, accusingly.  
  
The chest by the bed had been opened and some of it's contents laid out on the table: a hair clip, a brightly woven shawl, a tea cup.  Mostly sentimental things, they held no real value and would be worth nothing to sell, or so Armitage told himself.  
  
"She died, I'm going through her things."  He did not elaborate further, he did not care to.  His mother had been sick for a long time, maybe since before they had come to St. Petersburg even.  Kylo had never met her.  Near the end she had worn makeup so thick to cover the lesions on her face it looked like a pale mask.  Her eyebrows were drawn on overtop, always slightly too high to give her a look of perpetual surprise.  A year before her death, Armitage had begged her to stop working, telling her he could support them both.  She had just smiled at him, the makeup cracking around her mouth like she was a porcelain doll that had been dropped one too many times.  Taking a long pull from her cigarette she said, "The Russians gave me this blight, I plan on spending the last of my days giving it back to them."  she paused to ash her cigarette out the window, "Besides, you could never afford to keep me in cigarettes."  
  
Kylo picked through the mementos, running his finger around the mouth of the cup, feeling the weave of the shawl.  
  
"She was Chechen."  He commented, it was not a question.  Then he squinted over at Armitage.  "You don't look Chechen."  Also not a question.  
  
"What keen observational skills you have."  
  
Kylo continued to eye Armitage consideringly.  "The Circassian War wasn't that long ago."  Then nodded to himself as if coming to some conclusion.  "You are a war child."  
  
"How delightfully euphemistic of you."  
  
"You don't look very Russian either, though."  Kylo continued, still contemplating Armitage, inspecting his face from across the room as if the answers to his heritage were written in his bone structure, the set of his eyes, the fall of his hair.  "Ireland.  Your father must have been Irish."  He said decisively.  "I have heard they all have hair like yours.  It's a little British island full of illiterate savages that are always trying to declare themselves independent."  He waved his hand dismissively, "A whole group of them joined Napoleon to fight against Britain.  Clearly, that didn't work out, but," he clapped his hands in excitement, "what if one of them came with Napoleon to Russia, then deserted to the Russian army and was sent to fight in the Caucuses and then he saw a Chechen woman and her being the first woman he'd seen in months and him being a savage and unable to control himself, bam!"  At this point he was practically dancing.  He reached up to pet at Armitage's hair, smiling wide, self-satisfied with his assessment.  "Just look at you, it all fits!  You are a real mongrel of savages."  
  
Armitage stepped back abruptly, batting Kylo's hands away and glaring, then turning to face the window.  "If you wish to continue insulting my ancestory and ridiculing my appearance you can do so outside on the street like everyone else."  
  
"Oh don't be like that."  Kylo smiled again and grabbed Armitage around the middle, pressing his cheek to the curve of his back and rocking him back and forth.  "I wish I were a savage.  Rrrr Rawr!  Rawr, rar, rar!" he bit Armitage playfully on the back of the arm, shaking his head like a dog.  "I wouldn't wear shoes all summer long and instead of learning my letters I would hunt bears and wolves and swim naked with the fish."  Rubbing his face into the fabric of Hux's shirt, Kylo nuzzled his way under the older boy's arm and then around to his front so he could lay his head on Hux's thin chest.  "You would be in my tribe.  It would be amazing."  
  
Hux continued to look out the window over Kylo's head, but conceded to bringing his arms up to encircle Kylo's shoulders.  
  
"I don't know who my father was or where he came from.  My mother wouldn't talk about anything that happened during the war.  I don't really even know how old I am, she wouldn't talk about it.  I was raised by my mother's husband but, obviously," he gestured to his hair, "he was not my father.  If my mother was even my mother."  He paused, breathing out slowly.  "He died five years ago and we came to St. Petersburg to live with my aunt, but when we got here, she had already been taken by consumption."  
  
Kylo hummed softly into Armitage's chest, "You hadn't been in St. Petersburg long when you met me."  He raised his head to look the other boy in the eyes, still smiling.  "Was I your first friend in all of Russia?"  Hux rolled his eyes, but before he could reply Kylo continued with a dramatic gasp, "Chechens are muslim.  Does this mean you're an infidel!"  Hux deepened his eye roll and scoffed.  
  
"If there is a god, which I highly doubt, he certainly doesn't listen to prayers and I make it a policy not to waste my time with pointless superstitions."  
  
Kylo's smile widened, "A redhaired savage non-believer, you truly are the devil."  
  
"No, you have that backwards.  I was a savage non-believer first, then they tried to dunk me head-first in holy water and my hair caught fire.  It's been red ever since."  He ruffled his hand through Kylo's curly hair and then rubbed his knuckles into the top of his head as the boy tried to squirm away, laughing.  
  
===========================================  
  
Their routine continued, with Kylo wandering in and out of Hux's life like some rare migratory bird or magical apparition, appearing only to eat and sleep and sit by the fire and leaving again in the morning before Hux awoke.  The next event of significance didn't happen until two winters later, in 1905, shortly after a Siberian mystic had come to live at the royal court.  
  
It was a Saturday evening in January when Hux knocked on the Dumanovsky's door to drop off his bookings for the day.  The eldest brother, Sol, answered and ushered him inside.  He stopped in the entryway, unbuttoning his coat and reached inside for his ledger.  
  
A few years back, Armitage had begun taking detailed notes to track his business.  More than who placed what bet when and for how much, but also trends, demographics, quantitative data on what turned the most profit.  Staying on top of current events was useful, as was gossip.  Gossip was generally good for business, people liked to bet on anything morbid or salacious but not too depressing.  He wasn't exactly successful, but these days no one was, and it had helped him stay afloat.  That, and his side business in low-quality cigarettes.  
  
Collecting bets all across St. Petersburg had put him in contact with quite a number of useful people, including the waitstaff at several high-end restaurants, cafes and private clubs.  He liked to think that anytime a cigarette was put out in St. Petersburg without having been smoked all the way down to the end, the butt ended up in his pocket.  He bought them off waitstaff for a few kopeks a handful, scrapped out the unsmoked tobacco, re-rolled it in strips of newsprint, and resold them on the street as he made his rounds.  The quality was crap, but he didn't have to pay excise taxes and could undercut anyone else's prices by a pretty big margin.  
  
Sol stopped him before he could start going over the numbers for that day, then pulled down a pair of house shoes from a cubby by the door and placed them in front of him.  "Men should not discuss business without first sharing a meal."  
  
Armitage was half-way to saying they had been doing business for the better part of five years without having shared a meal, but decided against it.  The Dumanovskys could be a bit odd, but they were always organized and on time, two things Hux approved of deeply.  Also, their mother was a good cook.  
  
After taking off his outer layers and putting on the houseshoes, Armitage was led into the kitchen.  The house was warm, but dark, lit only by a copper lamp that flickered in the middle of the kitchen table.  He was directed to sit and a meal was laid out: dressed herring, slabs of dark rye bread, and pickled vegetables.  Mrs. Dumanovska lead her three sons in a brief prayer, for which Hux sat silently, head bowed, and then they all tucked in to eat.  
  
"I apologize for only being able to offer you a cold meal, but today is Shabbat and while the Lord does not allow us to cook on this day, He does encourage hospitality."  
  
Armitage blinked, not knowing quite how to respond to that.  "Your cooking is very good Mrs. Dumanovska. I consider it my good fortune that your god allows it on all the other days of the week."  
  
This got a laugh out of the two older brothers and a smile from Mrs. Dumanovska, who turned to them and said, "See, I knew this was a good idea.  Armitage is a smart boy."  She turned back to Hux, "You already know my older boys, Sol and David, but this little angel is my youngest, Poe."  She ruffled the hair of the small, dark-haired boy sitting next to her.  Poe smiled sweetly at him across the table.  Knowing his brothers, and taking a long look at the black eye the little angel was sporting, Armitage felt the need to be a bit skeptical of that introduction.  
  
"We have a business proposition for you."  He looked over as Sol took control of the conversation.  "Gambling is not a growth industry.  Russia is starving.  Business is headed for the shit--"  
  
"Solomon Benabraheem Dumanovsky!"  Mrs. Dumanovska swatted him in the back of the head.  "I have come to terms with you never giving me grandchildren, but I will not ever come to terms with you swearing in my house."  Solomon was gay and Mrs. Dumanovska considered adoption to be, 'not the same thing,' an opinion which Armitage found highly offensive but let slide for the sake of business.  
  
"Sorry, Mum."  Sol cleared his throat and started again.  "Our customers have recently begun to fall into one of two categories: those who can't afford to gamble, and those who can't even afford bread.  Collect money from either and we are despised, while making little enough profit to be considered almost pointless.  Continuing in this business is foolhardy."  
  
Armitage nodded, this wasn't news to him.  
  
"We are thinking of changing industries and starting import-export business."  
  
"Smuggling,"  Armitage clarified.  
  
Sol waved the word away.  "Importing: sugar, alcohol and tobacco.  They store well, travel well and the taxes on them right now are exorbitant.  Most of Europe gets it all from the colonies.  I have a contact in the British fleet and, come spring, Poe and I will be sailing to Portsmouth to establish a supply."  He gestures to his middle brother, "David will stay here to receive and distribute the shipments when they arrive here in St. Petersburg."  He looks at Hux.  "That's where you come in."  
  
"What's the export?"  Armitage interrupted.  
  
Sol looked at him questioningly.  
  
"You said you were going into the import-export business.  What's the export?"  
  
Sol gestured into the air.  "Pain, suffering, and malaise."  He sighed.  "This is why we're even talking right now.  I've seen what you've been doing in your ledgers.  I know about your cigarette business.  You're smart, you're organized and you pay attention.  Let's speak plainly: there is nothing of value in Russia that is not already under royal control.  If London wants to buy Russian horse piss, I will start bottling it tomorrow, but until then, we will be buying in Portsmouth and selling a very low margin here St. Petersburg.  You--"  
  
"Timber." Armitage was leaned back in his chair, his legs crossed and hands folded in his lap as he looked off into the distance consideringly.  
  
"Timber, dear?"  Mrs. Dumanovska pompted in the moment that followed his interjection.  
  
"You'll never sell horse piss to London, they're already drowning in it themselves, same with Paris.  But timber: look at the size of their fleet, look at their heavy industry.  Sure they have coal and steel now, but they are a tiny island nation, they've been cutting down their forests for centuries.  They must be running out.  It's pointless to send empty ships all the way across the Baltic.  We could try selling timber, or charcoal even.  They have coal but charcoal has a different carbon content. It can be useful in,"  he waved his hand vaguely, "something about making steel, or was it wrought iron?  I'm not an expert.  It's something to look into.  But that's neither here nor there at this point."  He looked across at Sol and David, then turned to Mrs. Dumanovska.  
  
"Let's talk about my cut."  
  
===========================================  
  
Armitage was smiling to himself as he climbed the stairs to his apartment.  He had decided he liked Salama Dumanovska, she was a smart woman and clearly a survivor, two excellent qualities to have in a business partner.  He had worked for the brothers, David and Sol, for years and knew they could be relied upon, but it was nice to finally have a proper chat with the one in charge. _Best not get ahead of one's self though,_ he thought, _right now that's all it is, talk._ The possibilities, however, were intoxicating.  He rounded the corner at the top of the stairs.  
  
"You're late."  There sat Kylo Ren, sprawled on his stoop and looking as irritable and dissatisfied as ever.  
  
"I didn't realize we had an appointment."  Armitage stepped over him to unlock the door.  
  
"You're always home by now.  Besides, the power is out, all market squares are closed, what could you possibly be doing?"  Kylo stomped in past him, pulled up a chair, and plopped down proprietarily in front of the cold stove.  
  
Hux bristled as he knelt to check the coals.  "I don't just hang around on the street corner all day like an old drunk, you know.  I had a business meeting."  
  
Kylo scoffed.  "A business meeting, sure."  
  
Armitage narrowed his eyes, then rolled them.  It was hard to take Kylo seriously, sitting there with his hat on crooked, big ears sticking out from underneath it, bright red from the cold.  He was wearing the same military overcoat he had picked up five years ago and it no longer fit.  The hem fell barely below his knees and the arms did nothing to cover his bony wrists.  If it weren't for being so clean all the time, he might have actually started to look the part of a hapless street urchin.  Well, that and being, clearly, much too well fed.  
  
He passed Kylo the water pitcher.  "I need to get a coal from the neighbors."  
  
Kylo huffed, but took the pitcher anyway and headed out into the hall to fetch their water.  
  
They fell into their normal pattern after that: lighting the stove and bundling up in front of it, waiting for the kettle to boil.  Armitage had already eaten, but thankfully Mrs. Dumanovska had wrapped him up some leftovers for his lunch the next day and he was able to serve that to Kylo along with his tea.  When Kylo had finished, they both washed up, then sat by the fire rolling cigarettes.  It was something of a new tradition for them.  The work was monotonous and, depending on your outlook, somewhat disgusting, but Kylo didn't seem to mind it and Hux found it pleasant while in his company.  Pleasant enough, even, that rolling cigarettes alone now seemed lonely in a way that Armitage was uncomfortable examining too closely.  
  
"That woman, where you always get our food," Kylo started, carefully separating the singed and yellowed paper from a half-smoked cigarette, "is she your business partner?"  
  
Armitage hummed noncommittally.  "I normally work with her sons, but maybe, yes."  
  
"She's Jewish isn't she?"  
  
"I suppose."  
  
"They've been killing the Jews in Kishinev, some other places too.  The Tsarina might have to step in."  
  
Armitage hummed again.  "It would be better for her if she didn't."  
  
Kylo gave him a strange look, "But don't you like Jews?  You're working with them."  
  
Armitage flicked his gaze up, "I only know four."  He shrugged.  "I'm not saying they deserve it, but the economy is shit, it's cold, people are starving.  It's good to have someone to hate, it brings people together.  It would solve a lot of Organeva's problems."  
  
"But what about the war we're fighting with the Empire of Japan.  That's not bringing people together, people hate the war.  My mentor says war only leads to political turmoil.  Instead, we should embrace sin so that we can be united in our repentance and together seek salvation."  
  
"Your mentor is an idiot.  The war against Japan is unpopular because it is expensive and far away.  I have nothing against the Japanese, I've never so much as seen one and neither has most of Russia.  All anyone knows about the war with Japan is that it's the reason sugar is so expensive and," he gestures to what they're doing, "no one can afford real cigarettes.  People need something that they can see, something they can kick and spit on and point to, and say, 'that, there, is causing all my problems.'"  Armitage snorted in disdain, "'Embrace sin,' the only people sinning are the people who can afford to.  Half the city is on strike and the other half is out of work.  The power has been out for weeks and no one can afford matches, the only one sinning is your mentor."  
  
Kylo leaned back, sticking his nose in the air like he always did when he was feeling dismissive and superior.  "Well, my mentor says--"  
  
Armitage cut him off, "Snoke is nothing but a charlatan pervert who crawled out of some hole in Siberia and wormed his way into the Tsarina's good graces, I know not how.  His frankly ridiculous mysticism and blatant disregard for common decency is both undermining the monarchy and an insult to anyone with good sense."  
  
Kylo sat up again, his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched.  This was the first time that Hux had acknowledged Kylo's life outside his apartment.  All previous oblique mentions Hux had let slide, pretending as if when Kylo said, 'someone told me this,' or, 'I heard that,' he was talking about some vague rumor he had overheard at the market or on a street corner, rather than at court, potentially first hand.  
  
"What do you know, anyway?  Nothing, that's what."  Kylo pushed away from the table, angry and wanting to be finished with the conversation.  He turned away from Hux and started to strip, yanking his cloths off and throwing them in them in a corner before stealing Hux's nightshirt and pulling it on out of spite.  _Not a good choice_ , thought Hux, watching this display, _You're only hurting yourself.  I haven't washed this shirt since the power's been out and you're the one who has to smell me._  
  
Kylo stayed mad for the rest of the evening and didn't so much as acknowledge Armitage when he finally climbed into bed after putting away the unfinished cigarettes and dampening down the stove for the night.  After a few minutes, still refusing to fully acknowledge his presence, Kylo reluctantly snuggled up against Armitage's side.  He started to bury his face in the other boy's shirt, like always, then abruptly leaned back, turned around, and pressed his back to Armitage instead.  Hux smiled up at the dark ceiling.   _Yep, definitely only hurting yourself_.  
  
==========================================  
  
Years of sleeping in a shared bed with only a thin wall between himself and his twelve closest neighbors had made Armitage a heavy sleeper and normally he did not notice Kylo leaving, waking only to an empty bed.  This morning though, something must have been tickling at the back of his mind, because he woke abruptly as soon as he felt Kylo climbing over him.  
  
"Wait!"  He grabbed Kylo's arm.  Kylo stopped, crouched over with one foot on the floor, and blinked owlishly down at him, his hair puffed up around his head like the mane of a lion.  A very awkward baby lion.  _He really is just like a cat._ Hux caught himself thinking. _You can feed him and invite him in, but he'll only ever do what he wants.  Every time he leaves, all you can do is hope he feels like coming back._ Realizing he was staring, Armitage shook himself, trying to gather his thoughts.  
  
"They're marching today."  
  
"What?"  Kylo pulled back, disinterested, and started dressing, clearly still irritated from the evening before and not happy to be caught slipping away.  
  
"The workers, Father Gapon, the strike, they're marching today.  They're marching on the Winter Palace, the Hermitage."  
  
"What workers?"  Kylo started pulling on his boots and tying his neckerchief, in a hurry to be gone.  
  
"All of them."  
  
Armitage stumbled out of bed and rushed to catch up with Kylo, throwing his clothes on.  He was still groggy but becoming more frantic as his head cleared.  "You can't go out there, it's not safe.  I can't believe I didn't remember last night.  I was distracted.  I can't believe I didn't remember.  There's going to be a riot, it's not safe."  Armitage kept berating himself and repeating, "It's not safe, you can't go." as he pulled on his boots, then threw himself forward to hold the door closed when he saw Kylo go to open it.  
  
Kylo turned on him, furious.  "You don't tell me what to do!  You know nothing!  You are nothing!"  All the tension from the evening before, his mercurial nature, and probably something more besides that Hux would never know about.  The same mysterious something that had brought him to Hux's door in the first place.  It had all come to a head and Kylo was letting it out in the only way he knew how.  "You're just a godless mongel bastard and you live at my pleasure!  If you hold this door against me for one second longer, I am leaving and never coming back!  You'll die in some stinking rathole with all the other Jew and Muslim neophytes and when you do, there won't even be a heaven for you to go to!"  By this point he was shaking, screaming up at Hux, his face red and his eyes so wide they were watering.  
  
Hux glared down at him, unmoved, but knowing that there would be no holding him if Kylo was determined to leave.  "You're not going alone."  He pulled his hand back from the door.  
  
"Be my guest."  Kylo snapped, then wiped around, flung open the door, and started stomping down the hall.  
  
The streets were eerily quiet and at first Armitage entertained the hope that they might slip past the demonstrators without incident.  Kylo and he would be coming from Kolomna in the north and most of the workers lived on the other side of the delta to the south and east.  They would either be converging on the Narva Gate or coming up Nevsky Prospekt before heading to where the Hermitage sat on the southern bank of the Neva.  All Kylo and he needed to do, was slip down Kamennoostrovsky Prospekt, over the Troitskiy bridge, and left a few blocks to the Hermitage, before any protesters arrived.  Presumably, at that point Kylo would somehow be let in.  
  
These hopes, however, were soon dashed.  Blocks away from the bridge, Hux began to hear the dull roar of a crowd.  The protesters had come to a halt at the end of Kamennoostrovsky Prospekt and were singing "God Save the Tsarina!" at full volume.  They were off key and only vaguely in unison.  He could see a few Russian flags waving in the pre-dawn light, people had linked arms and held up icons or photos of the Tsarina.  As they got closer, Hux was able to make out why they had stopped.  A column of infantry blocked Troitskiy bridge, flanked either side by Cossacks and Imperial Guards.  They were mounted on horseback and armed with sabers.  
  
The din got louder as they approached, it appeared some small groups were being let through.  Armitage's heart beat faster.  "God Save the Tsarina!" rang in his ears.  He found himself edging closer and closer to Kylo as if he could protect him by mere virtue of his proximity.  Kylo, who was still marching stubbornly forward, seemed either oblivious or uncaring of the situation they were walking into.  
  
Armitage was practically on top of him when the first shots rang out, body hunched sideways and one arm outstretched, hovering over Kylo's shoulders, not quite touching, but only barely.  
  
The first shots rang out, and what had been a tense, unruly standoff boiled abruptly into chaos.  The women and children who had been pushed to the back of the crowd were turning to run, but since everyone had linked arms, it had become impossible to disengage.  The confusion increased as did the press of other frantic protesters. People became disoriented, no longer sure which direction the shots had come from, or where they should be fleeing to.  
  
Another volley was fired into the crowd.  
  
Now there was screaming.  A few in the very back had been able to break free and were running down Kamennoostrovsky Prospekt towards where Kylo and Hux had stopped.  Hux was pulling at Kylo's arm, trying to get him to turn around and run back the way they have come, but Kylo was frozen in place.  
  
The cavalry charged.  
  
The cavalry charged and Kylo still remained frozen, refusing or unable to move.  
  
The cavalry charged and Armitage saw the pale winter sun gleaming off the edges of one hundred sabers as they cut through the crowd.  
  
The cavalry charged and Hux turned away.  He picked Kylo up in his arms and ran.  
  
=================================================  
  
It was barely noon when they made it back to the apartment.  After the first few blocks, Kylo had come out of his daze enough to run on his own.  They ran the rest of the way back together and burst through the door of Hux's appartment side by side.  
  
Panting, they stood in the middle of the room.  Armitage glanced over.  Kylo was staring at a blank spot on the wall, not saying anything, not moving besides the rapid rise and fall of his chest.  Armitage reached over and grabbed the water pitcher, pressing it into Kylo's cold and clammy hands.  "Go fetch us some water.  I'll make tea."  
  
Kylo nodded and headed out int the hall without meeting Armitage's gaze.  Armitage played with the fire.  They made tea and sat in silence, cleaning tobacco and rolling cigarettes until there was nothing left to roll.  Then Hux pulled out a battered copy of _The Brockhaus-Efron Encyclopedia, Volume 26_.  It was his most prized possession, next to a homemade anthology of the selected works of Gogol, where each entry had been carefully clipped out of the various newspapers and journals they had appeared in.  He handed it to Kylo.  
  
"There's an article about the medieval French code of chivalry on page 72."  
  
Kylo looked at the book being held out to him.  "We have the whole encyclopedia at home."  
  
"Have you ever read it?"  
  
 He looked at Armitage, reached out and took the book.  
  
It wasn't until much later, when lights were out and they were lying in bed again side by side, that either of them brought up what had happened on the bridge.  
  
Hux could feel Kylo shift beside him, then turn to face him in the dark.  His voice was small and unsure in a way that Hux had never heard it before, "What's going to happen now?"  
  
Kylo had never truly asked for Hux's opinion before.  Sure, he had asked questions, and Armitage had certainly spoken his mind, solicited or not, but his responses had always been received with a sort of benign condescension, as if Kylo were always thinking in the back of his mind, 'oh, so that's what the common people have to say about that.'  This time it felt different.  
  
"Now the people have someone they can blame."  
  
Kylo shifted closer.  "What does that mean?"  
  
"It means that Organeva will have to be very careful from now on."  
  
"That's not an answer."  Kylo burrowed under Hux's arm, voice still small but now slightly more petulant.  "I don't like it."  
  
Armitage leaned his cheek against the top of Kylo's head, breathing in the smell of soap in his dark hair, and sighed softly.  "I don't like it either."  
  
===================================================  
  
The next morning Hux woke up to Kylo shaking him violently by the shoulder.  Already dressed, Kylo stood over him, staring him down with an intensity that was somewhat disturbing at that hour of the day.  
  
"I'm going."  
  
Armitage blinked a few times, still not quite awake, "Okay."  
  
Kylo continued to stare.  "It might be a while before I can come back."  
  
Armitage rubbed at one eye, then ran a hand through his hair to scratch at his scalp.  "Okay."  
  
Satisfied, Kylo turned sharply on his heel, opened the door and walked out, closing it with a sharp click behind him.  Armitage sighed and stared up at the ceiling, flexing his feet and stretching out his back, trying to pop it.  Kylo could be such an odd cat sometimes and now, apparently, he was a cat who liked to say goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
>  _The Little House in Kolomna_ is a narrative poem by Alexander Pushkin about a woman living in Kolomna (at the time, a poor district of St. Petersburg.)
> 
> Rasputin totally came to the royal court in 1905! *does a little dance* I love it when my timelines come together!!
> 
> The Hermitage in St. Petersburg was the winter palace of the Romanovs but I have no idea when during the year they occupied it other than, presumably, winter. The Exaltation of the Holy Cross is an Eastern Orthodox feast in late September and Pascha (Easter) is in April.
> 
> I play fast and loose with all references to the Circassian and Napoleonic Wars.
> 
> I am not Jewish and all descriptions of Jewish traditions including what is/is not allowed on Shabbat (the Sabbath/ Saturday) is from wikipedia and having Jewish friends (Reform is, as I understand it, a whole other ballgame though so: mostly wikipedia).
> 
> Derp, trade routs, welcome to my lazy lack of research. Excise taxes were super high in Russia during this time though, so I assume there was a pretty healthy black market. Also, the forests of Britain were becoming scarily depleted at this point, enough that the Forestry Commission was created immediately after WWI and the recovery process continues today.
> 
> Bloody Sunday is totes real. It happened pretty much as described except worse. I actually chose the least disturbing picture from it for the titecard.
> 
> Hey, thank's for reading y'all ;P come find me on tumblr [harlanhardway](https://harlanhardway.tumblr.com/)


	3. A Nest of the Gentlefolk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hux has plans, shit goes down, and everyone gets a little older.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: allusions to racism, some low-key voyeurism, way too much exposition
> 
> Same note as always about historical inaccuracies being present: both intended and unintended, and little reminder that in this version of the world homosexuality is normalized. It is treated like any other marriage/relationship except that it is guaranteed to be infertile, which comes with it's own problems NOT related to homophobia. Additionally, sexism has been toned down a notch to give my female characters some breathing room.
> 
> Extra special shout-out to MargaretKire ([mothdustmouth](http://mothdustmouth.tumblr.com/)), she indulges my midnight rants, fixes my typos, fills my plotholes, and is generally wonderful.

  
  
Armitage was going to marry Kylo Ren.  It wasn't an ideal match, he had no title and producing children would be complicated, but Alexander III had married a man and if it was good enough for a Tsar, it was good enough for anyone.  He just had to make himself someone worth marrying.  
  
It felt good to have a goal. Hux liked goals.  Goals could be broken down into manageable sections with checkpoints and actualization plans.  You could sometimes try for a workaround and, with a little bit of luck, fancy footwork, and quick thinking, maybe skip right to the end, but if all else failed there was always attrition to fall back on.  Devise a plan, implement the plan, check for success, devise, implement, check, over and over, one checkpoint after another until the goal was reached.  By this method Armitage firmly believed that anything was possible given the necessary time and proper perseverance.  Perseverance he had in spades, time, unfortunately, he did not.  
  
It had been eleven years since they first met and Kylo was eighteen now.  People got married at eighteen, sometimes younger, especially people of standing.  He was probably lucky Kylo wasn't married already.  Hux figured he had one winter, maybe two on the very outside, to make his bid.  
  
He did not know the exact nature of Kylo's social status, but was at the very least fairly certain it involved a good deal of money and very likely a title as well.  For all that Kylo might like him, be fond of him even, Armitage wasn't fool enough to think that he could propose marriage the way things stood now.  _Yes Kylo, young man of unspoken wealth and lineage, give it all up and come marry me.  Live in my hovel in the slums of St. Petersburg.  I have nothing to offer you but will love you and treat you like a prince, so much as I am able.  What a winning proposition,_ Hux thought to himself ruefully, _it would certainly go over well._  
  
Which is what had brought him to his current situation, sitting in the  general quarters of the Royal Merchant Vessel, the Fionia, discussing the price of sugar in Puerto Rico.  The Fionia was a brand new, 7410 ton, twin screw diesel cargo ship, fresh off the docks in Copenhagen.  Her two eight cylinder, 4-stroke diesel engines gave off 2500 IHP and resulted in an easy eleven knot service speed.  She was captained by one Emma Fisher, who stood a towering six foot three inches tall with short cropped blond hair and a sharp eyes.  She matched her ship as a titan of steel and strength.  Looking across the table at Captain Fisher, in full dress uniform, Armitage was reminded of the blue sailor suit Kylo used to wear, except where Kylo's had made him look young and soft around the edges, the captain wore her uniform like a battle dress.  
  
Hux had worked with Captain Fisher on and off since going into the import-export business with the Dumanovsky family six years earlier.  Running a small crew out of Portsmouth, she would pick up goods coming in from the Americas and ferry them east to the Baltic.  When she hauled for the Dumanovsky-Khaslik Trading Company, they did brisk business in sugar and seasoned timber.  The shipments had been small and the margins smaller, but the business plan was sound and they had been slowly expanding.  There was nothing slow about what was under discussion today.  
  
"I enjoy doing business with you, Mr. Khaslik, you run a tight ship."  Captain Fisher had an affection for puns and could could deliver them with such dry, deadpan humor that sometimes Armitage wondered if they were intentional or not.  "I would enjoy continuing to do business with you, but I have no interest in renting out my cargo hold by the square foot.  I have talked with your business partner in Portsmouth and he is on board with the idea of scaling your operation, but this would require a considerable increase in volume on your end."  
  
Hux folded his arms over his chest.  "What sort of timeline are we looking at?  My product needs to sit before it can be sold.  Manpower and supply are a matter of logistics, but nothing we cut now will be seasoned until next spring."  
  
She shrugged.  "You can check with Sol, but I doubt that will be a problem.  There's war in the air in Europe.  Britain will buy anything, if only to keep it from going to Prussia."  
  
"Charcoal?"  
  
The captain made a face, "Charcoal's a non-starter, you can sell it, but not at any kind of volume and it makes a mess of my deck."  
  
That was something of a relief.  Making charcoal was a backbreaking, miserable business.  He leaned back, thinking through the process of filling a timber order in the magnitude Captain Fisher was proposing.  He would need a lot of capital to get it off the ground.  Some of the loggers might work on prospect, but transportation costs would need to be payed up front, storage at the docks as well.  The bribes alone would represent a significant investment.  Then there was the import side of things.  The Fionia could hold a lot of sugar.  Sugar he would have to pay for and then sell, again in volumes he had never dealt with before.  Armitage breathed out slowly through his nose.  
  
"I can't deal in that volume of sugar right now, at least one third of the shipment needs to be in tobacco.  The timber can be ready in two months, no sooner, and nothing will be seasoned until next year.  Even then, not all of it.  Terms remain the same as before.  That's the best I can do."  Goals, he reminded himself, goals were worth gambling for.  He could do this.  
  
Captain Fisher nodded.  "Right now I'm on a short-term contract with a coal company out of Gdansk.  I'll be spending the next month running back and forth between there and Stockholm, before heading to England to resupply and making for Puerto Rico.  That gives you till spring to scale your operation and get a shipment together.  I'll send a telegraph through Sol's office when we break anchor for the Caribbean."  She smiled and held out her hand for Armitage to shake.  "It's a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Kaslik."  
  
He took it.  Her hand was delicate and pale, with long, slim fingers much like his own, but soft, the nails immaculately groomed.  "Good doing business with you Captain Fisher."  
  
"I prefer Phasma."  
  
Hux raised an eyebrow, releasing her hand, he wasn't sure how he felt about the intimacy implicit in a nickname, "Phasma?"  
  
"Captain Phasma."  She stood and clapped him on the shoulder.  "Now, to commemorate your upcoming expansion, I thought I would treat you to a taste of your own city.  How do you feel about the theater, Mr. Khaslik?"  
  
=======================================================  
  
Shakespeare was not one of Armitage's favorite playwrights.  The comedies he found to be frivolous and the tragedies exasperating.  So much time was spent moaning and dithering and generally emoting all over the stage that he found himself more irritated than anything else.  _Much Ado About Nothing,_ indeed.  He would have prefered something dark, satirical and Russian, Aleksey Pisemsky or Alexander Ostrovsky.  _Enough Stupidity in Every Wise Man_ , had come out the season before and been printed in it's entirety in the _Sovremennik._   He had read it four times, then made Ren sit and listen as he read it for a fifth time, aloud.  
  
As Shakespeare plays went, however, _Richard the III_ was one of the best, and Armitage had to admit that seeing it performed live was quite a different experience from reading it to himself, quietly, hunched over in a bookshop.  For one, he had never imagined Richard III to be black.  
  
As the curtain fell and the houselights came up, Phasma turned to look at him, eyebrows raised and smiling expectantly.  
  
Feeling as though he might have been the butt of some joke, Armitage kept his face impassive.  He matched her eyebrow raise.  "Do all of your monarchs dress like that?  I have heard of powdering one's hair, but that seemed a bit excessive."  
  
Phasma threw back her head and laughed.  She clapped him on the shoulder and made to stand, "Only when they're in white face, Mr. Khaslik, or feeling particularly out of sorts."  She winked at him, "No one should begrudge a man a few cosmetic enhancements.  He does, after all, have to compete with the fairer sex for attention.  Now come along, let's go meet our Moorish king."  
  
"Your Moorish king," responded Armitage, maintaining an unimpressed expression as he rose to follow, "and quite possibly the only black man in all of Russia."  
  
Captain Phasma threw and amused look over her shoulder as she lead the way around the orchestra pit to a door in the side of the stage, "You really must get out more Mr. Khaslik."  
  
He followed her backstage to a small dressing room, which Phasma entered, ushering him in after her.  As the door opened, the actor inside jumped to his feet in surprise.  
  
"Excellent as always, I knew Russia would be good for you!"  Phasma went to embrace him.  
  
The man's startled expression broke into a wide smile as he held out a hand to stop her, "Wait, wait," he gestured at his face and the white grease paint that was still smeared there, "congratulate me from a distance.  Believe me, you don't want this gunk on your clothes."  
  
Settling instead for a hearty handshake, the captain continued with good humor.  "And you got them to let you do Richard the III!  I always knew you were a rebel.  What's next: _Romeo and Juliet, A Midsummer Night's Dream_?"  
  
The actor laughed as he sat back down in front of his dressing table and began wiping his face, "I wouldn't touch _Romeo and Juliet_ with a ten foot pole and gloves on and _A Midsummer Night's Dream_?  You just want to see me wandering around for half a play wearing an ass's head."  
  
"O Bottom," Phasma exclaimed drolly, "thou art changed!  What do I see on thee!"  
  
"What do you see?  You see an asshead of your own, do you?"  He smiled at her in the mirror cheekily.  
  
Phasma laughed as well and clapped him on the shoulder.  "Maybe so, maybe so."  Then, collapsing into a chair next to the dressing table, seemed to remember Armitage.  She gestured him forward from where he had been standing near the door trying his best not to look awkward.  
  
"Finn, I would like you to meet my new business partner, Mr. Armitage Khaslik.  He represents the St. Petersburg office of the Dumanovsky-Khaslik Trading Company.  Mr. Khaslik, this is my good friend Finn Aldridge, the best Shakespearean actor to ever not speak the Queen's English."  This earned her a tisk and a sardonic look from Mr. Aldridge.  "Oh Finn, don't act so offended."  She responded to his glare.  "I am a Londoner and must be allowed my dignity.  We can't have the best Shakespearean actor in all the world be American, the Empire would collapse in on itself."  
  
Armitage shifted uncomfortably in the face of this friendly banter.  Then, determined not to be made to feel out of place, reached out to shake the man's hand.  "Pleasure to meet you Mr. Aldridge, your performance was exquisite.  I would very much like to see you in _Othello_."  
  
Finn grimaced, then took Hux's offered hand, smiling somewhat apologetically.  "Yes.  Well, I dare say you will get the chance before too long."  
  
Armitage, a bit at a loss for how to respond, released his hand, "Do you not enjoy _Othello_?"  
  
"No, no."  Finn was quick to offer another reassuring smile.  "It's an excellent play, one of my staples.  But," he tilted his head as the smile became a bit more pained, "it does get a bit tired after the five hundredth performance."  
  
"Ah.  Yes, how thoughtless of me."  Armitage paused, awkward despite himself.  He was terrible at small talk.  "How have you been enjoying St. Petersburg?"  
  
"Oh, it has been fantastic!  I saw the most amazing thing just the other day!"  He turned back to Captain Phasma, "Have you heard about the Imperial Easter eggs?"  
  
She looked up from where she had been examining her nails and idly poking through the content's of Finn's makeup case.  "Oh, yes," she dabbed a bit of rouge on the back of her hand to check the shade, "something about the royal consort giving the Tsarina a jeweled egg every Easter."  
  
"Oh, but it's so much more than just that!  Each egg is designed especially by Peter Faberge himself, he makes the most elaborate creations out of the finest jewels and precious metals.  Each one has some sort of ingenious surprise built in.  There's one with a ship inside, and one with a carriage, and one with a tiny silver swan swimming on an aquamarine lake."  Finn gushed and gesticulated with enthusiasm.  
  
Phasma raised an eyebrow, "When did you get so interested in the contents of the Tsarina's Easter basket?"  
  
"That's what I'm telling you, I meet Carl Faberge the other day and he gave me a tour of his workshop!"  
  
Mr. Faberge, apparently, was a huge fan of the theater.  He had been quite taken with Mr. Aldridge's Richard III and, coming backstage to introduce himself after a matinee performance, offered Finn a tour of the House of Faberge, an offer which the actor was only too happy to accept.  Finn proceeded to recount a step-by-step walk-through of the entire evening, complete with swearing Hux and Phasma to secrecy before showing them sketches of the latest Easter egg.  This was, according to him, a great honor, as the design was to be a secret until the egg could be presented to the Tsarina on Easter morning.  
  
Finally, after an all too detailed description of twelve of the forty-two Easter eggs designed to date, Phasma made to stand.  
  
"The Imperial Pelican egg, of course, is made of engraved red gold with a tiny enamel pelican seated on top, feeding it's young, and when you open it up--"  
  
"We really must be going."  Phasma cut him off mid-sentence.  
  
"Oh," Finn lowered the hand that he had raised in demonstration, "must you?"  
  
 "Yes, I'm afraid we must."  She ran a hand down the front of her uniform, smoothing the line of the jacket and straightening the crease of her trousers, then gestured at Hux.  "Now, give the man an autograph or something.  He certainly deserves it."  She smiled somewhat reprovingly, "and I trust that next time I come visit, you will do me the favor of being freshly back from a tour of the Imperial shipyards instead of the Imperial egg makers."  
  
Finn flushed and laughed a little in embarrassment.  "Of course.  I will do my best in the future to better cater my activities to your interests."   He grabbed a folded paper off his desk and turned to Armitage, "How do you spell your name?"  
  
"Finn, dear," sighed Phasma, now somewhat exasperated, "he spells his name in cyrillic, just put down whatever."  
  
"Yes, yes, of course."  Finn scribbled a few quick words, signed his name, and passed the paper to Armitage, who shoved it into his pocket without looking.  
  
Taking their leave of Finn,  Armitage and Phasma made their way to the lobby where they shrugged into their coats and hats, bundling up against the cold of the evening.  They shook hands one last time.  
  
"I will be expecting to hear from you when I check in at your offices in Portsmouth next month."  Captain Phasma looked Armitage firmly in the eye for confirmation.  
  
He nodded decisively.  "I will send a telegraph as soon as I can confirm the supply."  
  
With that they both headed out into the fresh February snow, Phasma at a brisk pace in the direction of a taxi stand, and Armitage more sedately towards home.  
  
===================================================  
  
The first time Kylo stole Hux's housekey, Armitage spent the better part of a day scrounging the apartment for it before admitting defeat and changing the locks.  When his key went missing again after Kylo's next visit, he grew somewhat suspicious.  Choosing to take the risk, he left the locks as they were and came home one evening to a warm apartment and Kylo happily drinking tea by the stove.  He had been briefly tempted to complain, to admonish Kylo for stealing his things, wasting his coal and drinking his tea, but seeing Kylo, relaxed and at home, wrapped in Hux's blankets and sitting by Hux's fire was such a welcome sight that he couldn't bring himself to comment.  
  
From then on, Kylo came and went at will, blowing through Hux's apartment like the wind through an open window.  Age had not made him any less volatile or capricious.  He sometimes came whipped up in a violent, directionless anger, and sometimes playfully tousling Armitage's hair and settling sedately by the fire.  
  
It was for this reason that, when Armitage arrived home that evening to find the door unlocked and Kylo installed by the stove, he was mostly unsurprised.  
  
He poured himself a cup of tea and settled into the chair across from Kylo as Kylo looked on, his expression halfway between petulant and amused.  
  
"You're awfully late."  
  
Hux hummed in contentment over his tea.  "I had a prior engagement."  
  
"A business meeting," Kylo translated.  
  
"I do have friends you know."  
  
Kylo pulled a stocking foot out from under his den of blankets and poked at Hux's thigh under the table.  "You have friend, singular, me.  I know you talk to yourself sometimes but you aren't allowed to count that."  
  
Armitage huffed and kicked back, trapping Kylo's foot between his ankles, "I do not talk to myself and I have friends, plural.  Who said I was even counting you?  You're just a stray I made the mistake of feeding one time.  One day I'm going to replace you with a cat."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, sure."  Kylo unwrapped his other leg from the blankets and kicked at Hux under the table, dislodging his trapped foot and mounting a counterattack.  "I'll believe it when I see it."  
  
"Well, as it so happens."  Armitage put down his tea and grabbed the edge of the table with both hands to get more leverage, trying to kick at Kylo's chair.  "I've been invited to play cards with a few of these, according to you, non-existent friends of mine, this very evening."  Just as he made contact, giving Kylo's chair a good healthy shove, Kylo stood up.  No longer weighed down, the chair skidded back abruptly and Armitage fell forward after it landing in a heap under the table.  
  
"Well then, let's go!"  
  
Armitage peered out from under the table, "What do you mean, let's go?"  
  
Kylo was already putting on his boots, "It's evening isn't it?  You can't skip out on your friends!"  Fully dressed in what seemed like seconds, he pulled Armitage up by the armpits and started dressing him in the winter layers he had taken off only minutes before.  "Come on, come on, come on!  I want to kick your ass at cards!"  
  
"You could never kick my ass at cards."  Armitage grumbled but took over tying his neckerchief and shrugging into his overcoat.  His wardrobe had improved considerably in recent years, enough that he had not been entirely out of place at the theater, but he still thought back with some longing to the beautiful marten fur coat Kylo had been wearing when they first met.  _One day_ , he thought to himself, folding the scratchy wool blankets Kylo had left piled by his chair and throwing them back on the bed.  _One day, I will  buy a marten fur bedspread, or maybe one of sable and wrap Kylo up in it.  It will be rich, and dark, and soft and Kylo's hair will blend into the fur where it brushed his shoulders_.  He emptied his pockets, tucking the autograph from earlier under the ashtray by the window.  _It will be lovely_.  
  
"And for the record: you definitely talk to yourself."  
  
Armitage turned around to find Kylo standing right behind him, crowding into his space and smiling mischievously down at him.  Kylo had finally come into his height the year before and, judging by the breadth of his shoulders, would probably fill out at some point as well.  For now he remained skinny and coltish, not much bigger than Hux, but he liked to press his two-inch height advantage all the same.  
  
"It's just not out loud.  I bet you anything you're doing it right now."  The corners of his eyes crinkled with the force of his smile and his eyes danced, as he slowly leaned in closer until their foreheads were almost touching.  Then he swooped down and bit Armitage on the nose.  
  
"What the fuck, Kylo?!"  Kylo danced out of the way as Hux swiped at him, rubbing his face.  
  
"Come on, we're going to be late!"  Kylo bounded out of reach and into the hall.  
  
"What?  You don't even-"  Armitage scrambled to dampen down the stove and lock the door as he stumbled, flustered after Kylo's retreating back.  "We're not on a schedule.  You don't even know where we're going!"  
  
===================================================  
  
This had been a terrible mistake.  
  
"This was a terrible mistake."  
  
He regretted every minute of it.  
  
"I regret every minute of it."  
  
"Oh, come on Hux, don't be such a sore loser."  Svetlana raked in her winnings and began to sort through the collection of loose change and cigarettes.  
  
"You ganged up on me."  Armitage complained, mulishly.  
  
"Oh, please, that's how you play the game, when did you become such a whiny drunk?"  Svetlana further sorted out the low-quality cigarettes from those made with fresh tobacco and real rolling papers.  
  
"We can play something else, if everyone's getting sick of Skat," piped up Mitaka, who had already begun reshuffling the deck.  
  
"No," came the resounding response, in stereo, from the rest of the players, excluding Hux, who was still sulking into his glass of vodka.  
  
Unamo reached over to grab a cigarette out of Sveta's pile and inspect it.  "Not exactly wagering the family jewels are you?"  She ran it under her nose.  "Though this tobacco is old enough it could practically be an heirloom.  I can't believe you're still making these."  
  
"It's good business.  People buy them, it makes money, why stop?"  Armitage took another drink.  "Ren helps me roll them sometimes."  
  
"Yes," Sveta turned to Kylo, "the ever mysterious Kylo Ren.  Here I thought I was Hux's oldest friend in St. Petersburg and then in he trots with you, cool as you please, no explanation.  Don't think you're not going to be interrogated later, I'm just waiting for you to let your guard down."  
  
Svetland was Armitage's oldest friend in St. Petersburg.  He had met her much like he had met Kylo, on a cold and miserable day while out trying to sell cigarettes and take bets.  At first he thought she had a crush on him when, after their first meeting, she continued to seek him out to buy his cigarettes and wager a few coins on bets she clearly cared nothing about, but quickly realized she just found something about him highly amusing.  He still didn't understand quite what.  It was through her that he had met her younger sister Unamo, who was still slightly older than Armitage himself, and Unamo's boyfriend Mitaka.  He and Unamo made for an odd couple, with her severe, almost stern beauty, and his baby face.  Mitaka was just twenty but looked more like sixteen, which was both a blessing and a curse.  
  
"My guard never goes down.  I'm the Imperial fucking guard."  Kylo responded with a grin as he picked up his cards.  
  
"Speaking of," Unamo glanced at Hux, who was flashing half his cards to the table as he tried to organize his hand, "the press gangs are out in force again, it looks like it could be war."  
  
Armitage groaned, "I was wondering why Mitaka was wearing highwaters."  
  
All Russian men were obligated to serve a mandatory six years active duty in the military, plus another eight in the reserves, starting at age twenty.  In times of need, such as now, with the Prussians mobilizing on their western border, impressment gangs would roam the streets enforcing mandatory recruitment of anyone who looked of eligible age.  Looking old and infirm, or in Mitaka's case, young and weak in ill-fitting clothes, could be a form of protection.  
  
"Your friend to," Unamo continues, judging Kylo with a cool eye, "you might not be of age yet, but with that kind of height, I doubt they'll even ask."  
  
Armitage smiled somewhat sloppily and shook his head, causing his hair to fall into his eyes.  "Nope."  He shook his head again, exacerbating the issue.  "Didn't I tell you?  This is Kylo Ren, Igor Stravinsky's Tsarevich come to life." He gestured, flashing his cards.  "He has nothing to worry about.  He's friends with the firebird, if anything happens, she'll come help him out."  
  
Unamo raised a skeptical eyebrow and Sveta leaned over to pat Hux on the head. "All the more reason to watch out.  He wouldn't want to put the firebird to any undue trouble, isn't that right, Kylo Ren."  
  
Kylo laughed, "God, I've never seen him this drunk before, he's practically relaxed."  
  
"I know!"  Sveta picked up her cards, then put them down again.  They probably wouldn't be starting the game anytime soon.  "The first time I met him, I couldn't believe it.  I'd never seen such a ridiculous person take themselves so seriously."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Well..."  Svetlana trailed off, turning to look at Hux, who threw up his hands in disgust and leaned back, crossing his arms.  
  
"Oh come on, you're worse than my sister, you can't just tease a story like that and expect me not to bite, he doesn't care," Kylo protested.  
  
Sveta turned back to Kylo and leaned in conspiratorially, "Okay, so, picture this: it's April of 1899, you remember that spring?  We got so much rain the Neva almost flooded.  Anyways, I was seventeen at the time and just walking home from closing up the bakery.  The sun was still out but it was raining so hard I half expected to see animals start walking two by two towards the harbor, and just as I round the corner to the market square, there's this boy, standing on the corner across the way.  He must have been..." She turned to Armitage again.  
  
He rolled his eyes, "eleven."  
  
"Eleven, and he's standing there, shivering in the pouring rain, hardly a soul around so god knows why he was there, and then suddenly he starts dancing."  
  
"Dancing."  Kylo repeats, skeptically.  
  
"Dancing," she nodded.  "He just started dancing, right there in the market, in the middle of a rainstorm, presumably to keep warm while he waited for god-knows-what.  So, of course, I have to go up to him and introduce myself."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Which I do, and then, without missing a beat, he promptly tries to sell me a cigarette and asks me if I want to bet on his cock."  
  
"His cock."  Kylo looked at Hux, then turned back to Svetlana, "His cock."  
  
She nodded, "His cock.  I'm fairly certain he meant rooster and that he was taking bets for a cockfight but he absolutely said 'do you want to bet on my cock.'"  
  
Armitage turned red, protesting, "We had just moved here and Russian is--"  
  
"Anyway," Svetlana continued, talking over him, "After hearing that, we were still standing in the middle of a rainstorm mind you, I told him that if he could produce a dry cigarette I would buy all that he had to sell and put down three rubles on his cock besides.  He, of course, being Hux, ushers me under an overhang and pulls out a quadruple-wrapped bundle of oilskin cloth from under his shirt, from which he produces three of the most horrendous, but bone-dry, cigarettes I have ever seen or smoked."  She shrugged and waved her hand, "After that I decided we were friends.  I lost three rubles on his shit fighting cock, and have been smoking his terrible cigarettes ever since."  
  
Kylo laughed and shook his head, smiling, "That's just how it goes with Armitage, isn't it?  I still don't beleive that bit about him dancing, though."  He looked over at Hux, "There's no way you dance."  
  
Hux sniffed and tilted his nose into the air, "There are things about me you don't know Kylo.  I am a deep and many-layered person."  
  
Mitaka, who had been flipping cards at Unamo during the story, trying to get one down her blouse like the mature and respectful boyfriend he was, chimed in.  "I hear Circassian dancing is quite exotic, like the Spanish," he strikes a dramatic pose, " Paso Doble."  
  
Hux swatted at him, "It's not exotic," his voice arched at the word like it offended him, "it's just dancing, and I'm Chechen, not Circassian.  The Lezgian is different for them."  
  
"Well then," Unamo gestured towards the mostly open center of the room, "please, educate us."  
  
"What?  No.  I mean," Armitage sputtered, his already flushed face turning, if at all possible, even redder.  
  
"Oh come on, let's see this stupid dance,"  Kylo goaded.  
  
"It's not stupid, it's culture.  It's my culture."  
  
"I'm still just seeing a lot of sitting."  
  
Svetlana started clapping out a quick 6/8 rhythm and the rest of them joined in.  "Come on, Hux, show us this culture of the Caucuses, or have we Russians beat it out of you yet?"  
  
With that, Armitage rose to his feet, "No one could ever beat anything out of me."  
  
He stepped out to the center of the room, lifting his chest and raising his arms, his feet matching the rhythm of their clapping.  It was a simple dance, with a fast pace and sharp, quick steps.  Dynamic movements and tight, dramatic turns sometimes alternating with a moment of stillness: one hand drifting in front of the face, puissant and proud.  
  
Kylo watched, clapping to keep rhythm with Hux's friends.  Armitage was not a hugely talented dancer, but in that moment he was exalted, and his movements were steadfast and strong, and he was smiling.  
  
=========================================  
  
The apartment was cold when they crawled into bed later that night.  The stove had long-since gone out and the linen and wool of Hux's bedclothes felt heavy against his skin.  He turned to wrap himself around Kylo, who lay warm at his side.  Reaching across that broad, boney chest and burying his fingers in dark hair, he pulled him close, feeling loose and affectionate.  Kylo, for his part, melted into the touch, bringing his face into the crook of Hux's shoulder and breathing deep.  Then, rolling abruptly over onto his side, he pressed his back to Hux instead, pulling Hux's arm around him.  Armitage laughed sleepily at Kylo's wriggling and nuzzled into his soft hair, bringing one arm up to trace patterns into Kylo's collarbone as he drifted to sleep.  
  
Hux woke the next morning to Kylo crawling over him and out of bed.  He had long since lost his ability to sleep through Kylo's sneaking about.  This might have had something to do with Kylo now being closer in size to a bear than a housecat, or maybe his body just had gotten so used to being rudely shaken awake by Kylo telling him he was leaving, that it was now waking him up preemptively.  Kylo remained mostly oblivious to this change in his sleeping patterns, either that, or he didn't care.  Having been born seemingly without shame or modesty, both options were equally likely.  
  
There was nothing particularly unusual about Kylo's morning routine, he would strip to the waist, splash some cold water from the night before on his face and neck, sometimes washing under his arms or across his chest, then throw his clothes on and turn to shake Armitage awake.  The air was cold and he moved fast and efficiently.  It took three minutes, tops.  Hux smiled to himself sleepily as Kylo slipped off his shirt, he still found it lovely.  It felt like watching a jungle cat in the wild, observing its habits, watching it groom and drink by the stream, before it slipped back into the heart of the forest.  
  
Some mornings, however, took a slightly different turn.  Kylo was eighteen so it wasn't particularly unusual or surprising that, on occasion, he would wake up hard.  Hux didn't make anything of it.  He, himself, was both slightly surprised and eternally grateful for the fact that he had never woken from a wet dream on a night when Kylo shared the bed with him.  
  
When it happened that hormones and a drive to perpetuate the species had gotten the better of him, Kylo would sometimes pause after getting out of bed.  He would reach into the waistband of his pants and, not masterbate per se, but maybe take a minute to feel himself out.  He would close his eyes and sigh, tugging gently at his balls and running his fingers along his erection, stroking once, maybe twice.  It wasn't urgent and it wasn't going anywhere but, with his head tilted back and his face relaxed and open, he seemed content to just enjoy.  Then, after maybe thirty seconds of this, he would adjust, straighten his waistband and turn to wash his face.  Nothing like ice-cold water to get rid of morning wood.  
  
Armitage was aware that his habit of watching Kylo in the morning might be considered borderline creepy behavior and watching Kylo touch himself was definitely well-over-the-line creepy behavior.  He had somewhat come to terms with being maybe borderline creepy when it came to Kylo.  As to the later, the first time it had happened had caught him entirely unawares. As soon as Kylo put his hand down his pants, the blood had gone rushing out of Hux's head so fast he thought he was going to pass out.  Then he had had to awkwardly hide the most painful erection of his life to date while pretending to be woken up and saying goodbye to Kylo.  After that first time, there really was no excuse, but a man can only be so strong.  
  
This morning, Kylo had woken up with an obvious tenting in the front of his pants but had chosen to ignore it.  He did that sometimes, washing his face and letting it go down un-indulged.  Hux was never sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.  
  
Later, after Kylo left, Hux sat in bed, smoking a homemade cigarette.  They really were quite terrible.  He ashed it into the ceramic dish in his lap and took another drag.  In his hands he held a folded square of paper, 'To the man with the reddest hair in Russia, may it always bring you luck and good fortune, Finn Aldridge,' written on the front in bold cursive.  He unfolded it.  
  
There, on the inside, was a detailed sketch of the latest Faberge Imperial Easter Egg.  It was beautiful, beautiful and playful and elegant.  Designed like a nesting doll, it was pure gold, but covered in a smooth white enamel to resemble a chicken egg and nestled inside was a golden sphere, the yolk.  The yolk opened to reveal a tiny golden chick and inside the chick, a diamond crown containing ruby pendant.  
  
He smoked for a while, looking at the sketch and thinking.  
  
===================  
  
Armitage had a replica made in the parts department at the theater where he met Finn.  This came with a bit of a risk, as Mr. Aldridge was one of the few people who might recognize the design and theater people were known to talk.  However, most of the parts department did not speak English and Finn did not speak Russian.  With the added reassurance of a few healthily lined pockets, he considered it a safe gamble.  
  
Gaining access to the egg was a bit more complicated and that opportunity came by a stroke of luck as well.  As it turned out, Han Solodnikov, the royal consort and father of the heir to the throne of Russia, whom rumor had always placed as being a communist sympathiser, was in fact a communist sympathiser.  Hux learned this from David, the middle Dumanovsky brother and by now Hux's long-term business partner.  David had always been a mild-mannered, slightly naive, closet revolutionary, who enjoyed discussing the communist overthrow of their imperial oppressors over a glass of port and a fresh pipe from the comfort of a warm sitting room.  By some twist of good fortune, the sitting room in question on one evening in mid March, was the sitting room belonging to the royal consort himself.  
  
David, overcome with giddiness from his brush with royalty, was all too happy to tell Hux, in great detail, all that he could about the event.  Unfortunately, David seemed more interested in gossip than the layout and contents of the Solodnikov residence, forcing Armitage to endure an incredibly boring, but ultimately productive, evening pumping him for information.  
  
"He was in the import-export business himself as a young man!"  David was practically bubbling over with excitement.  
  
"Yes, so I heard.  I imagine he must have an amazing collection of souvenirs from his various travels, I wonder if he showed any of them to you."  Hux, once more, attempted to steer the conversation towards a more useful description of the household.  
  
"He met the Tsarina through her brother,"  David continued, undeterred, "or brother by marriage, whatever we're calling him now, Lyosha Schastlivtsev.  You remember how he was always traveling back and forth to Britain before he built that estate in the Highlands?"  
  
"Yes, didn't he convert to that ridiculous religion they have over there as well?  I wonder if they even celebrate Easter?"  His question went unnoticed.  
  
"Well, Han Solodnikov was the one always bringing him back and forth and they became friends, as one could only expect from being in Solodnikov's presence for that long, and then Schastlivtsev introduced him to the Tsarina and there you have it!"  
  
Armitage gritted his teeth, "Did he show you the new Easter egg?  I have heard it is quite remarkable."  He had lost all patience for subtlety.  
  
"Oh."  David blinked a few times, startled out of his story for the first time in a good hour and a half.  "Yes?"  
  
"The new Easter egg.  Did you see it?"  
  
"Oh, yes, of course.  It looked a bit plain.  I mean, I was told it was solid gold, but it was entirely white and looked just like an egg.  Seems a bit of a shame, don't you think?"  
  
"Yes, I'm sure.  Tell me about when he showed you."  
  
With that, David was off again, delighted at Hux's renewed attention.  
  
=========================================================  
  
He gained access to the Solodnikov household disguised as a chimney sweep.  Or perhaps it would be better to say, he became a chimney sweep and thus gained access to the Solodnikov household.  It was spring and boys all over St. Petersburg were climbing up the chimneys of rich and poor alike, cleaning out the soot of a long Russian winter.  All it took was a few rubles pressed into a dirty twelve-year-old hand and he was able to join their ranks.  He was, maybe a bit older, and a bit taller than one might expect but with a good layer of soot covering him, and worked with special deliberation into his distinctive red hair, no one questioned him as he went around, peddling his services.  
  
After a few awkward, painful, and filthy weeks wedging himself into chimneys and getting his brushes stuck in bends in the flue, Armitage felt confident enough to finally approach the Solodnikov home.  The housekeeper answered the door and, after a brief discussion of price and admonishments about the expected quality of his work, he was led into sitting room and pointed towards the fireplace.  He laid his drop cloth over the hearth, opened the flue grate, and pulled himself up into the chimney, pushing his brush ahead of him.  
  
 Directly after the conversation with David, he had taken down notes, recording everything he had been told, then took to the streets and, finding a good vantage point, carefully studied the rooftop of the Solodnikov household.  He knew he would never be left alone once inside so the entire plan depended on his having correctly guessed the interior design of the house's chimneys.  
  
He worked quickly and haphazardly raining soot and ash down on himself as he climbed, he couldn't be up here longer than would seem normal.  Coughing against the coal dust, he could feel it collect like tar in his lungs.  He would be hacking up black phlegmy globs of it by the evening, just as he had every evening since starting in this profession.  The chimney angled sharply left, becoming almost horizontal before angling back up, this was a good sign.  He climbed on, hoping against hope that he had not miscounted chimneys, that David had not exaggerated the size of the house.  He felt a hole open up to his left.  A second fireplace shared the same chimney flue.  
  
Taking a careful, shallow breath against the thick air, he wedged his brush in the junction of the two chimneys, and shimmied down into the second one.  This one was tighter than the first, a mere nine by fourteen inches, and never in his life had he been more thankful for his narrow shoulders and slight build.  Lowering himself as quickly and as carefully as he could, he soon felt his feet brush the flue grate.  Opening it slowly, he dropped down into the fireplace in the next room.  
  
In for a penny, in for a pound: he stripped out of his filthy clothes as quickly as possible, pulled out the false egg from where it was wrapped in a mostly clean cloth under all his layers,  and slipped barefooted out onto the floor of Han Solodnikov's study.  His heart slammed in his chest as he used the cloth to open the bureau door and pull out a beautiful lacquer box, all perfectly in place, just as described.  
  
He flipped open the lid.  
  
There it was.  
  
In a matter of seconds, he switched the eggs, closed everything up and was back, standing in the fireplace scrambling into his cloths, and scurrying up the chimney.  He paused to breath for a second, calming his nerves and sucking in the clean air coming through the open grate, before closing it behind him.  This was, physically, the most dangerous part of the plan.  Normally, when you climb a chimney, you push a brush in front of you and clean as you go, dislodging all the loose soot and ash that had built up in the flue and scrubbing away the creosote to find traction on the clay beneath.  He can't clean this chimney as he climbs, in addition to taking too much time, the pile of soot and ash that would drop on the grate below would give him away immediately.  Instead, he has to climb the chimney as it is, trying not to dislodge the thick cake of ash that coated its sides.  
  
He climbed in a blackout, both literal and figurative.  The flue was pitch dark, and the adrenaline pumping through him combined with a giddy knot of fear sitting deep in his stomach from being so close to success.  It put him in almost a trance state.  He climbed up and back down again, barely breathing.  
  
He swept the hearth, folded up his drop cloth, and followed the housekeeper into the kitchen.  Two bedrooms and one sitting room later, Armitage found himself back in the study, once more climbing up the tight nine by fourteen inch flue, this time pushing his brush before him.  He completed the sweep and began to descend.  
  
"It's called being pragmatic.  I put my finger in the air, see which way the wind is blowing, and take it from there.  Fighting the inevitable never did anyone any good."  Armitage could hear muffled voices as someone entered the room below.  
  
"Sir, the chimney sweep was just finishing up, if you would like to retire to your sitting room for a few moments--"  
  
"Let the boy work.  I'm not afraid of a little soot."  Solodnikov cut her off, dismissing the housekeeper's concerns.  
  
"Ben, you've gotta see it like I do.  Your mother has her ideals about the legacy of Russian Imperialism, but communism is the way of the future, there's no fighting it."  
  
"So, what, we could just bend over and let what happened in France happen to us?"  A second voice joined the conversation.  "Stay here and let them chop our heads off or go hide out in Scotland like Lyosha while the country burns?  That's your plan?"  Armitage recognized that voice, the outrage, the sarcastic condescension.  He would know that voice anywhere.  He had heard it whisper to him in the dead of night, and scream at him first thing in the morning.  That was Kylo Ren's voice.  
  
Maybe Solodnikov had a second family.  Kylo could be some illegitimate child that followed the royal court, it wasn't unheard of.  Some might say it was even fairly common.  
  
"Leia--"  
  
"Leave mom out of this."  
  
"She's the Tsarina of the entire bloody Empire, there's no leaving her out of anything!"  
  
Or not.  
  
"Stop trying to get out of this!  I'm talking about you: father of the heir to the throne of Imperial fucking Russia, that's me by the way, in case you were wondering, meeting with fucking Marxists!"  
  
Finished with his work and lacking any further excuses to hide, Armitage dropped quietly to the floor of the fireplace.  The shouting continued as he swept the hearth and folded his dropcloth, his back to the royal family.  Then, gathering his brushes, he allowed himself to be ushered silently out of the room.  Just as he slipped away, the housekeeper holding the door to prevent him from dirtying it, he turned slightly to catch a glimpse of the royal heir.  
  
There was no denying it, it was Kylo.  
  
=====================================================  
  
Armitage was whisked out of the house, a few rubles pressed quickly into his hand.  He didn't bother to count them.  His feet took him on autopilot back to the alley of the chimney sweeps, where he exchanged his tools for a few more coins, then north, over the river and back to Kolomna, to his apartment.  
  
Once there, he pulled the bed away from the wall, pried up a loose floorboard, and hid the Faberge egg inside.  He swaddled it in cloth and slotted it into a knot in the one of the crossbeams that supported the floor, replaced the floorboard, repositioned his bed and collapsed into it.  Then stared up at the ceiling.  
  
_Tsarevich Kylo Ren,_ He thought numbly, _little Tsarevich Kylo Ren is little Tsarevich Benjamin Kenobi Organev.  The Tsarevich is the Tsarevich._   He almost laughed.  
  
His stomach growled and he rolled onto his side, inspecting the soot under his fingernails and ground into the loops and whorls of his fingerprints.  He was hungry, he hadn't eaten since the bit of bread and tea he had for breakfast.  He got up.  
  
It was Saturday and thus there was no food to be had at the Dumanovsky house, so he turned towards Kamennoostrovsky Prospekt.  He walked, dazed and in shock from the events of the day, trying to focus on what he could control.  He was hungry and tired.  He would eat and then sleep, and whatever came next would come next.  He didn't notice the men approaching him.  He didn't notice the long gray coats and peaked caps, he didn't notice the sabers at their sides.  
  
He didn't notice, almost until he was spoken to.  "How old are you boy?"  
  
He couldn't breath.  "Eighteen."  
  
"You look twenty to me," and just like that, none of it mattered.  Armitage was in the army.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A Nest of the Gentlefolk_ is a novel by Ivan Turgenev: basically a soap opera-esque tragic love story in mid 19th century Russia. It was published in the newspaper _Sovremennik_ so Hux would have totally read it!! (Let's ignore the bit where it was published in 1859... and that the _Sovremennik_ wasn't in print anymore at all by 1900. I warned you, my dedication to historical accuracy is limited @_@ just roll with me on this.)
> 
> Derp, turn of the century international economics and trade. Skimming wikipedia and talking out my ass, I know nothing.
> 
> Ira Frederick Aldridge was an African-American Shakespearean stage actor who made his career in London in the mid 19th century. He toured Russia and was immensely popular there and yes, he played Richard III and other white European characters in white face.
> 
> All Faberge eggs described or alluded to are based on real Faberge egg designs. The one Armitage steals is called the "First Hen Egg" or "Jeweled Hen Egg" and was the very first Tsar Imperial Faberge egg.
> 
> The Lezginka is a traditional dance that is common among most of the people in the Caucasus, it is popular even today outside of the "traditional folk dance" context. If you youtube it you'll get a lot of hits of young guys dancing at weddings or on the street. If you really are interested in what I had in mind, specifically, though, you should check out the movie "12" by director Nikita Michalkow. It's a modern Russian remake of "12 Angry Men" and I can't recommend it enough, Hux's entire backstory for this fic is based on the boy in the movie (now you know my secret). If you youtube "12 chechen dance scene" you'll get a scene of him dancing as a young child and then, way at the end of the film there's a scene of him dancing in his cell to stay warm. If you've read this far into my notes, you should probably check it out.
> 
> Okay, so a mechanical chimney sweeping machine was invented in 1803 and was pretty wide-spread by the end of the 19th century in most of Europe, also flues were narrowing to the point where climbing them wasn't possible even for children anymore and instead a lot the the cleaning involved climbing onto the roof and lowering a brush that was attached to a rope or a set of long poles (I did not research the details). I don't know what the situation was in Russia, but one can assume that climbing into the chimney to clean it was no longer a thing at this point. Also, I only briefly looked up chimney construction to check if this was even theoretically plausible and it is, but also highly unlikely... so basically this whole bit is just bullshit
> 
> Impressment was a thing, but I'm unclear on when it stopped, exactly. Also, there is a fine line between impressment and conscription. As to the required military service, I was given conflicting information on how long that service was required to be. There were lots of military reforms after the Russo-Japanese war that went largely underfunded and clearly it was a pretty disorganized/uncertain time for Russia in general. They did have the biggest standing army in the world, though. At the end of the day, I'm just not a military scholar.
> 
> Come find me on tumbler [harlanhardway](http://harlanhardway.tumblr.com/)


	4. What Men Live By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the history, which had been foreshadowed and we all knew was coming, happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: disfigurement (non-graphic), descriptions of war (non-graphic)
> 
> I assume everyone got the memo by now about this being queer-friendly and slightly-less-sexist pseudo-historical fiction. If you haven't been reading the endnotes, that's cool, but if you have and any of you out there are history scholars (or just knowledgeable parties) and can fill in some of the holes in my research, I would love to hear from you! Come on guys, let’s learn about WWI together! That shit is fascinating: the end of Empires, the beginning of modern warfare, modern psychology, philosophy, etc., etc., etc. :)) I like a little kylux with my history lesson.
> 
> If you liked this fic, you should go thank MargaretKire ([mothdustmouth](https://mothdustmouth.tumblr.com/) on tumblr), because she is the reason updates have been happening with such frequency. She has gone beyond Beta reader, she's my straight-up editor. Also: a great author so go check out her stuff!

  
  
His hands ached, but they ached all the time now.  Armitage listened to the rain patter gently down on the roof overhead and breathed in the smell of damp wood as it soaked through the cedar shakes.  It was a light spring rain, and he was alive.  He put down his pencil and took out a tin of Vaseline from the top drawer of his desk, opened it, and began to massage some into his hands, then, taking off his house shoes and wool socks, rubbed it into his feet as well.  He had been in Portsmouth for four months and it still seemed ludicrous to have access to something like Vaseline.  Using a petroleum product as a skin moisturizer during wartime was a luxury for anyone, but after four years in the Russian infantry it felt decadent in a way that was close to obscene.  
  
He inspected his feet carefully, and then replaced his socks and slippers.  He had lost two toes to frostbite and infection continued to be a concern.  His hands were easier to monitor.  The pinky and ring fingers on his left hand were missing the first two knuckles, and on his right hand the very tip of his pointer and middle fingers were gone.  The doctor had wanted to take those down to the first knuckle as well, but he had refused to allow it.  Relearning to write had been something of a challenge, but at least no one would be asking him to go back to war anytime soon.  
  
When the mobilization started, his company had been camped outside Kotelnich on their way back from doing repairs on the Circum-Baikal.  It was a section of the Great Siberian Way surrounding Lake Baikal in central Russia that was often damaged by landslides or derailments.  With no money for proper railway engineers, the army had been sent in to fix the problem.  If you asked anyone else, the Great Siberian Way was a masterpiece of modern transportation technology.  The longest railway line in the world, it spanned Russia from Moscow to Vladivostok and was western Russia's connection to the Far East.  If you asked Hux, it was an inefficient, poorly designed, and shoddily constructed disaster.  Most of it was laid with only one track, preventing two-way travel and causing huge backups in service, and large parts, most commonly bridges, were either temporary or chronically out of service.  Twenty years of agriculture reforms that encouraged colonization eastwards into Siberia, as well as the transportation needs of the war with Japan, had further strained the capabilities of the brand new railroad well past capacity.  Thus: the better part of Armitage's stint in the Russian military had been spent on the rail lines wielding a hammer and a pickaxe rather than a rifle.  
  
Being in the army had come with the dichotomy of both complete lack of privacy and personal space and near-total isolation from the outside world.  One newspaper might be shared among fifty soldiers and rumors spread like wildfire through the ranks.  Hux hadn't found out about the assassination of the Archduke of Austria until weeks after his arrival at Portsmouth, and even then, tracing the beginnings of the war back to that event had been like unraveling a knot in a windstorm.  At the time of mobilization, he had only known that they were at war, that they were joining the Russian Second Army, and that they were headed to East Prussia.  
  
While reading about the first clashes of the Russian army with Austria-Hungary, Armitage had attempted to reconcile his memory of the events with the reporting of them.  At times, it made him feel somewhat like Jonah, studying the migration patterns of the whale that had swallowed him.   At the time, he had been aware that they had lost and that it had been a devastating loss, but he had not known that their army commander had committed suicide immediately afterwards.  According to reports, to say that the Second Army had been decimated at the Battle of Tannenberg would have been an underrepresentation of the facts.  But then, Armitage thought to himself as he read words like "humiliation" and "incompetence,” _to say that I fought in the Battle of Tannenberg would probably be an overrepresentation of the facts._   For the most part he just remembered a lot of marching and a lot of shouting, followed by a lot of running and trying not to die.  
  
When the tattered remains of the Second Army joined up with the First and the Tenth a few weeks later, they were routed again, this time pushed all the way out of East Prussia to Angerburg.  In the confusion that followed, the Second Army virtually non-existent and the first and the tenth already pulling back further into Russian Poland, it had been easy enough to choose not to follow.  He had not been the only deserter either; the Russian Army must have been losing soldiers like water through a sieve.  Before he knew it, Hux had found himself walking with six other men towards Gogolewo on the Baltic coast.  From there they stole a fishing boat to take across to Sweden, a neutral state.  
  
It took them three days in open water to make it across the Baltic.  A cold October wind blew steadily from the East, chopping up the waves and freezing their wet clothes to their bodies.  They had brought with them a small amount of food and water, but no blankets or additional layers, nothing for warmth.  The waves, at times, felt impossibly high, and the nights impossibly long.  It must have been early enough in the war that the Germans hadn't fully seized control of the Baltic.  Or perhaps they had floated right over top of a U-boat and been considered inconsequential. Either way, they made it to the Åhus, just east of the southern tip of Sweden, relatively without incident.  From there, Hux left the group to make his way by foot, across the Swedish peninsula to the Allied-controlled waters on its western coast.  He had neither wanted nor invited company.  One man walking alone was a vagrant to be pitied and perhaps monitored, but seven men were a roving gang of deserters and he had no desire to be imprisoned or worse, extradited back to Russia.  
  
Gaunt, filthy, and half-frozen, with no money and no resources to draw upon, he had arrived in Halmstad prepared to beg.  He had begged for anyone to take him to Portsmouth, or to England, or to any other harbor where there might be more vessels going to England.  He used every name he knew, asking after the Dumanovsky-Khaslik Trading Company, Solomon, David, Captain Emma Fisher, even Phasma.  It was the last name, Captain Phasma, which finally got him traction with a shipping captain hauling iron ore across the North Sea.  He knew Captain Fisher and knew that she did not give out her chosen name lightly.  He was willing to Marconi the Dumanovsky Trading Company for confirmation of Armitage's story and the reassurance that he would be compensated for the passage if he were to allow Hux onboard.  
  
Confirmation he must have received, because shortly thereafter, Armitage arrived on the doorstep and at the mercy of the Dumanovsky family.   The journey across the Baltic and then the lonely march across the Swedish peninsula had taken its toll.  Without proper medical attention it is often more dangerous to rewarm a frostbitten limb early, risking infection and the possibility of refreezing the already damaged tissue, than it is to wait until help is reached.  So when he arrived in Portsmouth, Hux's hands and feet were still frozen and turning black.  His eyes were sunken and cheeks hollow.  The Dumanovskys took him in, seemingly without hesitation, paying for his passage as well as for the doctor who amputated his frozen fingers and toes, and giving him a small room and a bed in their attic.  All that they asked in return was that he helped with the bookkeeping, and kept kosher while under their roof.  
  
Four months later, he stood, balancing steadily despite the missing toes and mostly without pain.  He walked to stand in front of a small mirror, hanging in the corner over a washbasin.  He inspected his cheeks.  Relearning to shave had been harder than relearning to write.  His hands shook sometimes from the nerve damage and he had cut himself that morning.  It wasn't bad.  He picked up his comb and carefully re-parted his hair, combing it over to the left to cover the tuft of white that had grown in at his temple.  Trauma, the doctor told him, sometimes that happened after the body underwent trauma.  
  
Armitage laughed to himself in the mirror before turning to head downstairs.  What did these Englishmen know of trauma?  
  
=========================================================  
  
Armitage walked carefully down the stairs into the Dumanovsky dining room just in time to help set the table for dinner.  Despite the dismal weather, the mood in the house was light, almost festive.  Poe was on leave from the RFC and had come home for a visit.  Mrs. Dumanovska had made his favorite, Koulibiak from fresh-caught sturgeon with cucumber salad.  The room was warm and smelled like sweet, fresh baked bread from the kulich left cooling in the kitchen, waiting to be iced.  
  
Mrs. Dumanovska had fled Russia in the summer of 1913 at Sol's insistence, though they had not called it fleeing at the time.  Sol had recently married and he and his husband, Eli, were adopting their first child, a one year old named Sosana, and had insisted Mrs. Dumanovska be present for the event.  Armitage suspected that the timing of the rather hasty adoption might have been somewhat precipitated by a need to get Mrs. Dumanovska out of Russia before war broke out.  The only one missing from the table was David, who had refused to leave St. Petersburg, even after the start of the war, confident in the coming people's revolution and adamant to be a part of it.  
  
"Well, Flight Commander, how has your future his majesty's Royal Flying Corps been treating you?" Sol teased at Poe, who had enlisted when he turned eighteen and would be granted citizenship as soon as his first term of service was up.  
  
"Very well indeed," Poe's smile was just as gregarious and bright as Hux remembered from their first meeting.  "His majesty has seen fit to outfit me with a brand new aeroplane."  He turned to Sosana, who was sitting quietly next to him, holding her knife and fork tightly in chubby three-year old fists as she watched him with wide eyes.  "Would you like to see?"  
  
She nodded dumbly up at him, her eyes growing even wider.  
  
Poe pulled a piece of paper out of his breast pocket and unfolded it onto the table, pushing his plate to the side.  "Well, the B.E.2 is what we call a tractor biplane," he showed her the drawing, "which means, it has two horizontal wings stacked, one on top of the other with my buddy and me sitting in the middle and a propeller attached to the front, pulling the whole thing forward through the air."  Sosana carefully traced the line of the fuselage with her finger.  "It's big and heavy and slow but stable as all get-out.  You can fly her in heavy wind over the ocean at night and take pictures like you're sitting on a sofa in your own living room."  
  
"What happens when you crash?"  
  
"I never crash."  Poe responded with a confident smile.  
  
She continued to inspect the drawing, studying the lines of the propeller with her finger.  "Are you going to help us win the war, Uncle Moses?"  
  
Poe turned to his mother, a comedic look of shock and betrayal on his face.  "Mom!  What have you been teaching her?"  
  
Mrs. Dumanovska didn't look up from where she was ladling a generous portion of cucumber salad onto her son-in-law's plate.  "It is your name dear; a girl should know her Uncle's proper name.  Now put your papers away so we can eat."  
  
"Will it really be the very last war, Uncle Moses?"  
  
Poe folded up his drawing and slipped it back into his pocket.  "I will teach you to fold paper aeroplanes after dinner if you promise never to call me Uncle Moses again."  He winked at her, "I might even remember how to fold a sailboat or two that we could go float in the harbor if the rain lets up."  
  
Sosana smiled and turned back to her plate, nodding shyly, her questions unanswered.  
  
"Mr. Wells should have stuck to fiction."  Mrs. Dumanovska sniffed.  "The war to end all wars, what rubbish, and now they're saying it all over Portsmouth."  
  
"All over Portsmouth, it's all over England, all over the English speaking world, really.  It's good propaganda," Sol joined in, gesticulating with his butter knife.  
  
"Yes, well, certainly not in Russia.  I like that man, the Munitions Minister, Earl of Doofor or something.  He had something to say about it."  She turned to Hux, "You know what I'm talking about Armitage."  
  
Armitage read a lot, especially since being on partial bedrest due to his recovery, and could generally be relied upon to have an excellent memory.  
  
"The Earl Lloyd-George of Dwyfor, he said, 'this war, like the next war, is a war to end wars.'"  
  
"Exactly.  The war to end wars," she shook her head again, "I guarantee you that's not what they're calling it in Russia."  
  
Armitage nodded in agreement.  "They were calling it the Fatherland War when I was in the army."  
  
"How could they call it that, there's already been a Fatherland War?" Sol wondered, around a forkful of cucumber salad.  
  
"Well," Armitage shrugged, "they were calling it The War for Our Fatherland.  Maybe it will be the Second Fatherland War."  
  
It was Sol's turn to shake his head. "Who knows what they're calling anything anymore?  St. Petersburg, Petrograd, the next thing you know there won't even be a Russia, it'll be the Imperial Empire of Europe and Asia, or something equally dry and unpoetic."  
  
There was a moment of silent chewing as everyone communally decided to let the subject of politics lie for the moment, before conversation drifted to business and then from there back to the war.  
  
"Sweden is maintaining neutrality, but most of their iron ships out of Stockholm.  Sometimes you can get someone to haul it across the peninsula for you, but they'd much rather just throw it on a boat and send it to the Germans."  Sol was leaned halfway over Eli, pointing with his teaspoon as he explained the trade situation to Poe.  "The Danish Straits are mined, but the Swedes have left their side open and there's a lot of money to be made if we can find a way to get through the Öresund Straits and safely up to Stockholm."  
  
Poe nodded, indulging his brother's enthusiasm.  "I heard they turned the lighthouse off and removed all channel markers as a concession to the Germans."  
  
Sol waved again with his teaspoon.  "Maybe so, but," he teetered the teaspoon back and forth in a motion of denial, "they're not always so quick on the draw taking down the channel markers.  Captain Phasma says she can do it and I believe her.  Most of her crew is willing to take the risk but she needs a new Chief Mate.  If we can make this work, it could be very good for the Dumanovsky Trading Company."  The Dumanovsky-Khaslik Trading Company had been shortened to just the Dumanovsky Trading Company after Armitage's disappearance in 1911 and it had remained that way, as he was no longer a partner.  
  
Armitage looked up.  "Let me talk to her."  
  
Sol glanced over, caught, poised before his next point, "hmm?"  
  
"Let me talk to her.  I want her to consider taking me on as Chief Officer."  
  
"Armitage," Poe almost laughed, "you look like you're one missed meal away from keeling over.  A stiff breeze would probably blow you right off the deck."  
  
Armitage looked over at Poe coolly, "Then I will be sure to always lean into the wind."  He turned back to Sol.  "You don't need me here doing the bookkeeping.  I've looked through your records; Eli has been doing an excellent job.  If Captain Phasma doesn't want me on her crew, then that will be the end of it, but we work well together and I would be good at it."  
  
Sol considered Hux from across the table.  "You were always a very determined young man, Armitage.  I have always admired you for that.  I will let Phasma know you're interested in the position."  
  
Hux leaned back in his chair, satisfied, and nodded his thanks.  
  
========================================  
  
It had been two and a half years since Armitage deserted from the Russian army and fled to England and in all that time, Hux had not once thought about Kylo.  
  
He had not thought about Kylo with the same sort of steadfast determination with which he went about all things, and when his thoughts did drift to Kylo, he went to study his maps.  He had, at this point, memorized most of his maps and had moved on to teaching himself Swedish.  
  
He did not think about Kylo because thinking about Kylo would mean remembering Kylo and memories were sometimes like old photographs, if you handled them too much or too often, they would yellow and begin to fade away.  
  
Hux had spent a lot of time thinking about Kylo in the army.  When he was lying awake at night, listening to the snores of forty other men, he would remember the soft sigh Kylo would make before falling asleep.  He would think about the way Kylo would sometimes rub his nose into his shirt as he snuggled in closer, drooling as he slept from where his mouth had fallen open.  On the boat ride across the Baltic, Armitage had contemplated Kylo's smiling face, tracing the outline of his cheeks in his mind’s eye, studying the fall of his hair, and the crooked set of his teeth.  As he walked across the Swedish mountains he had replayed every mad rage, every violent tantrum, every crying, screaming fit, until he could hear nothing but Kylo, screaming in his ears to not stop, to never stop, and it had kept him going.  He had needed Kylo then, and Kylo had been there for him.  
  
He was terrified to think that he might someday reach for those memories, and find only cobwebs, that he might be left with only a faded fever dream of his own invention, indistinguishable from true memory, but somehow still recognizable as false.  He knew that all it would take would be one glance from Kylo, one glance, and, like a cool breeze through a boarded up house, the cobwebs would be cleared away and everything restored.  But Kylo was lost to him and he would only ever have his memories.  So he guarded them, and he steadfastly did not think about Kylo.  
  
Which was why seeing Kylo Ren's face for the first time in six years felt a little bit like being hit over the head with a cricket bat.  
  
Armitage was in Stockholm with Captain Phasma.  They had just finished loading up a shipment of iron ore for delivery back to England and were currently walking through the main square, discussing his upcoming transition from first mate to captain and looking for local newspapers or gossip about the war on the Eastern Front.  
  
Hux had been taken on as a Trainee Officer onboard the Fionia in the summer of 1915 and had been working under Phasma for more than two years, rising in rank to Second, and then Chief Mate.  Recently, the Dumanovsky Trading Company had acquired a ship of their own, a 1085 ton vessel called the Cali, that was currently being refurbished in Portsmouth and would be ready to ship out upon their return.  It had originally been built in 1900 as a barquentine, but had since had its rigging removed and replaced with twin diesel engines, a retrofit that gave it a bit of an odd profile and rather unique handling attributes.  Armitage was to be installed as her captain and would most likely be making short trips, ferrying goods back and forth to Oslo before attempting passage through the Öresund Straits, into the Baltic and onwards to Stockholm.  
  
He was already set on calling her the Caligula.  
  
It was with these thoughts crossing his mind, that a photograph of the Organev royal family was shoved right into his face.  
  
"Photograph of the last Tsars of Russia!  Only 100 kronas!"  
  
Armitage stopped, his heart pounding, as he stared at the faces in front of him.  It was an old photo; the young Benjamin Organev stood grinning cheekily next to his mother, dressed in a sailor suit.  
  
Phasma had already walked past, unnoticing of the man or the photograph.  He was just one of many men, hawking his wears in the public marketplace.  
  
"Come inside, come inside, I have others, the whole family!"  The small, red-faced man gestured enthusiastically, flashing the photo again and removing his cap to wave Armitage inside with it.  
  
Phasma turned, to see why Armitage had stopped.  "Hux?" she called back.  
  
Armitage numbly followed the shopkeeper into his closet-sized newsstand.  He could see where the band of the man's hat had pressed a thick line into his forehead.  A bead of sweat had collected there and Hux found himself staring at it, mesmerized, waiting for it to fall.  
  
"I have recent photos, the last photos ever taken of the Tsarina Organeva with epaulettes, the last photos ever taken of the royal consort!"  The man enthusiastically displayed a loose collection of photographs and prints of the royal family, then pulled a few newspapers off the shelf behind him, "and the papers from the revolution, both of them, February and October!  You can buy the whole collection!"  
  
Phasma, who had followed Hux in curiously, laughed and took the newspapers, "War tourism, who'd have thought?  Newspapers really do deal in sex and tragedy."  She leafed through them, they were all local publications.  "Do you have anything out of St. Petersburg?"  
  
"There is no St. Petersburg anymore."  Hux commented impassively, to no one in particular, as he looked over the photographs.  
  
"Petrograd!  The Paris of the East, cauldron of unrest and misfortune!  I have leaflets, flyers, anything you could ask for, all very rare of course."  The shopkeeper turned, rummaging through another box and pulling out a stack of outrageous propaganda posters, most of them portraying Leia Organeva and her brother in an incredibly unfavorable light.  Leia, obese, and grotesquely weighed down by bejeweled finery, sat on a squat throne over a map of Russia while Lyosha cowered away in a corner waving a British flag.  Lenin strode triumphantly overtop, leading a party of square-jawed, muscular men and women in working clothes, who were marching to reclaim their capital.  
  
Phasma picked through the different designs, all variations on the same theme, "so nothing non-fictional then?"  
  
The shopkeeper ignored her sarcasm, and turned back to Armitage, who continued to silently sort through the images of the royal family, picking up one of Han Solodnikov.  
  
The man's ruddy face lit up, "The royal consort, excellent choice, that's sure to be a collector’s item before too long!  Some people say he's a real hero of the revolution.  They're calling him the last victim of the Tsars.  According to rumor, he helped with the first revolution, convinced Organeva to abdicate and everything, and was maybe going to get a position in the new provisional government, maybe trade leader or something.  But those Bolsheviks," he shook his head in morbid delight, "they mean business, said they needed to fully investigate his activities.  They were gonna lock up the whole family, put them on trial and everything, but then, when they went to reunite the royal consort with his family, where they had been under house arrest, they say the Tsarevich killed him."  
  
Hux looked up.  
  
"Clubbed him to death with a candlestick, right in front of his mother."  
  
Hux looked back down at the photos without comment.  
  
"Not even the Bolsheviks expected that!  No wonder they revolted, with a crazy person like that next in line for the throne.  They're out of the war for sure, too busy fighting themselves, I'd be surprised if they haven't sued for peace before the end of the year."  
  
Phasma put down the propaganda pages and started picking through the newspapers again, "That would require them to have a functioning government first.  How do you negotiate when no one has authority?  It's not like starting a footie club; you don't just pick a name and then call for a vote by show of hands.  Look what happened in France: one minute it’s women and babies marching to Versailles, and then the next thing you know, you have Robespierre in charge, it's the Reign of fucking Terror, and they’re chopping off heads in the streets.  Thank god for the Americas, I say.  We were able to ship all our poor disgruntled sods off to the colonies years ago.  They were able to have their little revolution somewhere where it didn't bother anyone, and we were quite happy to no longer be paying for their upkeep.  Worked out for everyone, as far as I'm concerned."  
  
Hux handed the shopkeeper a photo, face still mostly blank.  "This one.  I will give you eighty korunas for it."  
  
"Oh, but that's a rare one, there will never be another like it, I couldn't part with it for less than one twenty.  Unless you wanted to buy a whole set, of course.  I have some of the royal brother at his retreat in Scotland even; I can give you a good price for the whole family."  
  
"This one for eighty, or this one and the family photo for one hundred."  
  
"The family photo, that one is worth a hundred all on its own.  I can give you both for one eighty, best offer."  
  
Phasma joined in, "we want the photo and these two," she held up two newspapers, one from the current month and one from October, "we'll give you two hundred for the lot, take it or leave it."  
  
Money exchanged hands and Phasma and Hux went on their way, Phasma with her papers tucked under her arm and Hux with his photo safely in an envelope inside his jacket pocket.  
  
Phasma looked over at him out of the corner of her eye as they walked, "I think that might have been the most bizarre piece of wank material I have ever seen anyone purchase."  
  
Hux continued to look straight ahead, no longer fazed by Phasma's blunt manner.  "It's not wank material."  
  
"Oh, come on, I know you're not a monarchist.  You're not even really Russian."  
  
This earned her a reaction, Hux's first real expression since earlier that afternoon.  He glared, and then looked away again.   "I knew someone who looked like him once, back in St. Petersburg."  
  
"I thought you said there was no St. Petersburg anymore."  
  
"There's not."  Hux continued walking, picking up the pace to discourage further conversation.  
  
================================================  
  
Much later, back on board the Fionia, Armitage lay in his bunk.  He had pulled out the photo from its crisp white envelope and was studying it.  
  
It wasn't his Kylo that he saw in the photo.  His Kylo had been young and awkward, volatile, with a crooked smile and vicious temper.  The man in the photo was none of these things.  He thought back to Phasma's earlier comment and wondered in passing how many men had gotten off to that picture, how many women?  He could sympathize.  Benjamin Organev was magnificent.  His shoulders were broad and his chest had filled out as promised.  The portrait was a profile, showcasing the elegant sweep of his dark hair, the line of his neck.  His dark gaze stared intently out past the edge of the frame.  There was nothing left to see of that forlorn little stray that used to wait for him on his doorstep and lick jam off his fingers by the fire.  He traced the delicate curve of an ear as it disappeared into dark hair.  What a lion this man had become.  
  
Armitage rolled onto his side, pressing the photograph against his chest, _how weak,_ he chastised himself, _how childish; next you'll be weeping into your tea and moaning about Capulets and Montagues like an infant._    He didn't move, keeping the photograph in place over his heart, his gaze fixed on the wall of his cabin.  
  
He thought about France.  
  
==========================================  
  
Hux stood at the helm of the Caligula; they had just made it through the Gulf of Finland and were taxiing into the docks of Bolshevik-controlled Petrograd, full of iron ore that had been intended for England.  He had spent the last seven months interrogating every man woman and child he came across, who might have news of the Eastern Front, the movements of the Red Army, or the Bolshevik revolution.  A public trial of the Tsarina and her family had been announced in April along with demands for the extradition of the Tsarina's brother and daughter from Scotland, the young Raylana had been sent to spend time with her uncle at the British court shortly before the war and never returned.  The United Kingdom ignored the call for extradition and further issued an offer of asylum for the Tsarina and her son, provided they could make it to British controlled territory.  
  
In May, the royal family was taken from Petrograd to Yekaterinburg and removed from the public eye completely.  Hux knew there was no more time.  He could still feel the hunger and the bone-deep cold of those many long winter nights when bread was sold by the gram in paper-thin slices and there was no coal to be found anywhere, for any price.  He remembered the loneliness of seeing his own desperation reflected back in the faces of those around him and could taste the hatred that had crackled through the air following that Sunday in October when the Imperial Guard shot down unarmed citizens, like dogs, in the street.  These trials could only end one way.  
  
He arrived in Petrograd under the Swedish flag with a skeleton crew.  He had promised them rich compensation in exchange for their complete discretion, and the additional risk they would be taking, braving German controlled waters to make port in a country embroiled in a bloody civil war.  The Bolsheviks were happy to take his iron, but had no money.  He gave them two weeks to come up with a way to pay him for it.  
  
Leaving the ship under the protection of his men, he took to the streets of Petrograd in search of what had once been his home.  It would be a long two weeks for the men in his employ.  They would live on the provisions they had brought with them, staying on board and standing guard in shifts to protect their cargo.  Hux trusted no one and nothing in this strange and foreign version of a city he had once known.  There was too much being left to chance already to allow for any unnecessary uncertainty.  
  
He turned down Kamennoostrovsky Prospekt, refusing to look for the spot where he had been picked up those seven years ago.  He walked past the Dumanovsky house.  The windows were boarded up, the glass panes either broken or missing, and he could hear voices coming from inside.  None of them sound like David and he didn't stop.  Across the way, he could already see the apartment building where he had once lived.  If anything, it was in even worse repair than before.  He looked up to the top floor.  The roof had fallen in in places and the window that he had spent so many evenings looking out of, smoking and thinking about the future, was dark.  
  
Armitage climbed the stairs.  He could see by the water damage seeping down past the fourth floor and into the third, that the cave-in had not been a recent development.  He picked his way up to the fifth floor.  It was deserted.  The floor had been ripped out in the hall, the boards removed, leaving only a skeleton of crossbeams looking down to the plastered ceilings below.  Doors had been pulled off their frames and the moldings stripped from the walls.  He had heard that coal and firewood had grown even scarcer since the start of the war, here was his evidence.  
  
He looked to his left towards the entrance to his old apartment.  The doorway stood empty, even the frame was gone, pulled like a tooth from the mouth of a drunk.  Stepping into gutted room beyond, Armitage picked his way across the bare crossbeams in the floor to the far wall, where his bed had once stood.  He refused to look for any remains of his belongings, for some dirty scrap of his mother's shawl, or a shard of the tortoiseshell comb Kylo had once left behind, a lifetime ago.  He refused to glance out the window and compare the view to the one he had once known so well.  He crouched down, feeling for the knot on the underside of the crossbeam, refusing to hope.  
  
His fingers touched cloth.  
  
He pulled out the small bundle, and then sat, balancing on the crossbeams with his back to the wall, and unwrapped it.  It was as beautiful and unblemished as it had been on the day he had stolen it from Han Solodnikov's study, as perfectly smooth and symmetrical as it had been on the last day he had heard Kylo Ren's voice, the first day he had known that voice to be the voice of Tsarevich Benjamin Organev.  
  
Armitage ran his thumbs over the smooth enamel surface of the egg, feeling the golden seam that would allow it to open, revealing the secrets hidden inside.  Tears began running down his face as he sat clutching that beautiful egg in his ruined hands, crouched in the rotting husk of a room that had once been his home.  
  
He cried and thought about the egg and what had once been his plans.  He thought about Kylo Ren and the city that was no longer St. Petersburg.  He thought about the firebird, who had crushed a golden egg containing the soul of an immortal in order to save her prince.  He thought about the beautiful princess at the end of the story.  
  
After an unknown about of time had passed, Armitage wiped his face and picked himself up off the floor.  He felt strangely calm and centered for the first time in a long while.  He wrapped the egg back up and stowed it inside his vest, then headed down to the streets below.  
  
====================================  
  
Unamo looked decades, rather than years, older from when they had last seen each other.  She greeted him with a kiss on the cheek.  Her eyes were tired.  
  
"Armitage."  
  
"Unamo."  They sat across from each other in the cramped room she shared with three other girls.  The window was open, but it did nothing to dispel the muggy, humid air that hung over the room.  "You were the first one I found."  
  
Her mouth thinned as she paused before answering the unspoken question.  "Mitaka was conscripted when the war started.  I haven't had any news of him since they sent him to the front."  Hux did not ask how long ago that might have been.  "The revolution has made communication more complicated.  I hope."  She paused, and then started again.  "I've been trying to make myself easy to find."  
  
"And Tatjana?" Hux asked when she did not continue.  
  
This time Unamo looked to the side, glancing towards where one of her housemates was sitting, knitting by the window, before speaking.  "She was an exploiter.  When the Cheka announced the requisition of the bakery, reclaiming it for the people, she did not rightfully embrace the ideals of the revolution.  She was taken to be reeducated."  
  
The Bagrov family had not been wealthy or even well-off, but Armitage was not surprised by this news.  Tatjana had been proud and accustomed to fighting for what was hers and the Bolshevik revolution was headed in a direction that he had both feared and predicted.  
  
He glanced to the side, eyeing the roommate and the open window, and then looked back to Unamo.  "Do you remember my friend Kylo Ren?"  
  
She nodded.  
  
"I was hoping to visit him in Yekaterinburg."  
  
Unamo gave him a long look and for a moment Hux could see that same sharp, calculating glint in her eyes that he remembered so well from years before.  "That's where they took the Imperial Oppressors."  
  
"Yes, we were hoping to watch the trial."  
  
The calculating look returned.  
  
"I was thinking I would take the train, and was wondering if you had any suggestions about," he gave her what he hoped was a significant look, “ticket prices."  
  
"If you're trying to get to Yekaterinburg, you can forget it."  A voice jumped in from over by the window and Armitage and Unamo both turned to where the roommate sat facing them, her knitting still held securely in her lap.  "The White Army is closing in, trying to prevent a trial.  If there is one, it will be quick and there's no way you'll get in to see it."  She started a new row.  "Besides, the trains down that way are being controlled by the Czech Legion, so you'll never even make as far as that anyways."  
  
"Thank you, I will have to adjust my plans in that case."  Armitage's reply was somewhat stilted and he felt both justified and foolish for his attempt at subterfuge and speaking in code.  He would have made a terrible spy, but with the whole city gone crazy, he was unsure what would be considered a suspicious conversation and was unwilling to take the risk.  
  
"What a silly name your friend has anyway, Kylo Ren sounds awfully bourgeois."  
  
"He chose it for himself when he was young.  It's from a story.  Some of the street kids, they don't have proper names."  
  
"Well, you better hope he doesn't stay in Yekaterinburg for long."  
  
Hux nodded.  
  
The news from Unamo's roommate was both good and bad.  If the White Army was putting pressure on Yekaterinburg, then the royal family would be guarded all the more closely, but if loyalists were controlling the railroad, extraction over the Urals and back to St. Petersburg would be that much easier.  
  
He left Unamo with a brief hug and few words whispered in her ear.  If she wanted out, she need only come to the docks on in two weeks’ time and he would take her with him.  But as he left, he saw the sad smile on her face and the determination in her eyes, and he knew that she would never leave without Mitaka.  He kissed her forehead and wished her well.  Her hope was probably misguided, most likely pointless, and definitely self-destructive, but he could relate.  
  
===================================================  
  
The egg represented a considerable amount of wealth, but it went fast, probably faster than it should have.  Armitage didn't have the luxury of time to waste seeking out the lowest bidder.  He found transportation to Kordon, a town at the edge of the Bolshevik-controlled section of the rail line.  It sat on the border of Sverdlovsk Oblast just west, across the Urals from Yekaterinburg.  
  
There, he was able establish contact with the Czech League through a local farmer and negotiate the terms of their cooperation.  The Czech League was made up of nationalists, but not Russian nationalists.  It was comprised almost entirely of Czech and Slovak volunteers that had joined Russia in the fight against the Central Powers in hopes of gaining independence for their home countries.  Following the Russian revolution, they had found themselves trapped on the wrong side of a civil war and while they had no love for the Bolsheviks, neither did they honor the authority of the Tsarina and her family.  
  
Surrounded and out of resources, but for the armored trains with which they maintained their control of the Great Siberian Way as it passed over the Urals and into Siberia, the dream of a free and independent Slovak, Bohemia, and Moravia had grown smaller and more distant.  Though still hoping to escape Russia and rejoin the Allies in the fight against Austria-Hungary, they were willing become somewhat mercenary in the short-term.  
  
Tomáš Masaryk, the one-time leader of the Czech National Council had agreed to meet with Armitage as the League's representative.  
  
"If you can get the Tsarina out, fine, but the boy is my only priority."  Armitage was not going to pretend any longer, there was no time and there was no point.  
  
"This will not be easy.  They call it the House of Special Purpose; it is surrounded by a fourteen foot double palisade, and patrolled inside and out.  The boy and his mother are almost never alone and the windows have been sealed shut and whitewashed.  There is absolutely no outside contact, and even if we do get them out, we can't guarantee anything once they cross the mountains and into Bolshevik territory."  
  
Hux sucked his tongue against his teeth, and then flexed his jaw in determination, staring Masaryk right in the eyes.  "If you do this, it will be the kind of humiliating defeat that the Bolsheviks will never be allowed to forget, that history will never be allowed to forget.  The Czech Legion will have saved the last of the Russian Tsars.  You will have preserved the Russian Imperial legacy, where all the other Empires of the world could not or would not.  You will be remembered for this, if for nothing else, and I will pay you for it."  
  
They discussed strategy until late into the night, with Masaryk describing the circumstances of the Ipatiev House, where the family was being held, as well as various possible routes from the house to the Great Siberian Way, which skirted the city.  There were four machine gun stations, manned and aimed at the house at all times.  Sixteen guards slept in the basement, patrolling the building in shifts, and another fifty six were stationed in an impromptu barracks across the way.  More were camped in the surrounding neighborhood.  The Tsarina and her son were allowed no letters, no visitors, no newspapers.  They were not permitted to leave even to attend mass and, if caught so much as trying to peak out the small windows allowed open for ventilation, would be shot at.  The whole compound was locked down, tight as a drum.  
  
Except that guards were allowed to bring in women, for sex and for drinking parties.  
  
It was determined that perhaps the Tsarina and her son could be smuggled out as some of these women.  No one would suspect Tsarina Organeva of allowing herself to be submitted to the humiliation of such a disguise and they would, hopefully, be able to avoid undue scrutiny.  If, that is, she would allow herself to be submitted to such a humiliation.  
  
Come morning, with a tentative plan in place, Armitage handed over the golden outer shell and yolk of the Fabergé egg.  "Put them on a train in a cargo container.  I will have someone in Kordon waiting to accompany the crate once it reaches the other side of the mountains.  If you can, send word to the shipping docks in St. Petersburg with news of your success, otherwise I will wait for their arrival before the twentieth of July."  
  
He took the train back, paying a tall, stout looking man in tattered boots and mended trousers to watch for a crate that he was expecting.  He paid him generously and assured him that there would be more waiting for him in St. Petersburg if he could ensure its safe arrival.  
  
===================================================  
  
The journey was hot and harrowing.  He was trusting the Czechs at their word.  He was trusting the man in the tattered boots and mended trousers.  He was trusting the fickleness of luck and the reliability of the railroad.  He had almost no money left, just enough to pay his crew and the man that would arrive at the docks in a week's time.  
  
Back in St. Petersburg, Armitage negotiated the sale of his iron shipment, finally settling for a pathetically low price.  He would have been tempted to refuse the sale and leave, still fully loaded, but the Bolsheviks were so starved for resources, they would never have let him out of the harbor.  He put it out of his mind; the lost shipment was just one more thing he would have to answer for upon returning to Portsmouth.  
  
Days dragged by, and a suffocating heat descended over the city.  
  
On the eighteenth he received a telegraph.  "EGG ENROUTE.  CHICKEN REFUSED PASSAGE."  
  
On the nineteenth, news came that the White Army had taken Yekaterinburg.  No mention was made of the whereabouts of Organeva or her son.  
  
On the twentieth a crate arrived at the docks, accompanied by the tall man in tattered boots.  He had it brought into the cargo hold and paid the man, instructing his crew to break anchor immediately, before heading below deck.  The creaks and groans of the ship as it slipped quietly out of dock and into the harbor echoed through the mostly empty hold.  
  
He needed to be at the helm for when they entered the Gulf of Finland.  
  
There was a tight knot in the pit of his stomach as he knocked on the side of the crate and received no response.  Kylo must have been in that crate for at least two days.  He thought back to the stifling train car on his journey back into the city.  The crate was closed on all sides.  He hadn't thought about the heat.  Kylo could be dead.  He was probably unconscious, if he was in there at all.  
  
Armitage pried the crate open on one side.  
  
A pair of big brown eyes stared out at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _What Men Live By_ is a short story by Leo Tolstoy written in 1885 about a shoemaker who sees a poor man on the street and takes him in and feeds and clothes him and gives him work. Years pass and various things happen and finally it is revealed that the man is an angel sent to walk the earth for disobeying God until he can answer three questions, "What dwells in man?, What is not given to man?, and What do men live by?"
> 
> I have no idea if the Russian Imperial Army helped build the Trans-Siberian Railway (it was known as the Great Siberian Way within Russia). I know the strategy leading up to WWI was to keep the army pulled into the center of European Russia so they could be deployed in a defensive fashion but I really couldn't find much info on what day-to-day life was like (they had the biggest standing army in the world, WTF did they do all day??). Also, I couldn't find much info on who built the railroad and under what conditions so this might very well have been a real thing. I know the info is out there, but not easily found for free by me so: going with this for purposes of plot.
> 
> I have no idea how realistic Hux's escape from the Eastern Front is, I'm assuming not very. All of the surrounding events are things that happened but, TBH, there was only so much research I was willing to do. Stealing a boat might have been easy (band of desperate men in a warzone) or super hard (whole coastline patrolled by both the enemy army and the army you just deserted) and I don't know anything about taking a boat across the Baltic in October during a war and what that would entail.
> 
> I am incredibly unsure how much information would have been available about the war at the time, especially about the war on the Eastern Front, much less within Russia itself. There was a LOT of misinformation being spread and some details about what happened to the royal family were only confirmed/ revealed in the latter half of the 20th century.
> 
> Derp, UK immigration policy. I know there was a policy in place at the time that was very unfriendly towards Russian Jews but I just didn't do a ton of research into this. I'm going to pretend that military service gave you a path to citizenship. All issues of immigration will most likely be glossed over.
> 
> Derp, international wartime trade is based on lazy research through Wikipedia. The general gist should be somewhat vaguely accurate.
> 
> The entire rescue of Kylo is based on some cobbled together history and a rough timeline of actual events but, I'm sure is so unrealistic/inaccurate as to be offensive to anyone who knows anything about that time period. The details of the royal family’s imprisonment are accurate according to my research. The Czech Legion (the term/name/concept of Czechoslovakia originated from after the war) was real and did control the railroad against the Red Army for a time, I'm fairly certain this was all further east into Siberia though. The reason the royal family was killed in secret without a trial was because the White Army was on the doorstep of Yekaterinburg and there was a fear the family would be rescued. It was a valid fear; the White Army took Yekaterinburg days after the execution. This whole rescue is pretty glossed over and that's kinda on purpose. I'm a fanfic writer, not a member of SEAL team six.
> 
> Come find me on tumblr ([harlanhardway](https://harlanhardway.tumblr.com/))


	5. In Search of Lost Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they're trapped on a boat and conversations get heated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: see notes at the end (I promise, they're at the beginning of the notes)
> 
> Thanks again to [MargaretKire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MargaretKire/pseuds/MargaretKire/) ([mothdustmouth](https://mothdustmouth.tumblr.com/) on tumblr), she has put so much time and energy into supporting me through this whole writing process, I can't give her enough credit.

  
  
It wasn't a coffin.  It was a rectangular packing crate, maybe three feet high by three feet across and, six feet long, the kind used to ship munitions.  For most men it would have been the perfect size, but Tsarevich Benjamin Organev was not most men.  
  
He sat, curled over on himself, leaning against one end of the box, his legs stretched out before him.  Too tall to sit up properly, he was forced to hunch over with what looked like a painful arch in his lower back.  He would clearly have had to bend at the knees in order to lie down fully.  He had removed his shirt and shoes, shoving them under the awkward curve of his back to support it as he sat as straight as the height of the box would allow.  Against the far end of the crate by his feet was pushed a large pottery jug, which lay on its side, empty, and which Armitage assumed had once contained water, and a bucket.  Everything smelled like piss and sweat.  A tattered wool blanket lined the floor.  
  
The Tsarevich peered out at him dully from inside the box, then rolled to his side, and onto the deck, staggering to his feet and trying to stand.  
  
Hux moved forward to help him, "That might not be..."  
  
He caught the man just as he was fainting to the floor.  "... a good idea."  
  
Armitage sighed to himself, then, balancing the Tsarevich's not inconsiderable weight on his hip, pulled an arm up over his shoulder and muscled him over to the intercom.  
  
"Bridge, this is the Captain.  Send Mr. Celine down to the cargo hold to assist with a passenger."  
      
"On his way, Captain."  
  
Hux resettled the arm slung over his shoulder and leaned them against the wall to wait. Organev's bare skin pressed against his neck.  It was flushed red and clammy with sweat and a heat rash had broken out over the man's chest.  The rash was angry and swollen where he had obviously been scratching at it in the dark.  Hux closed his eyes for a moment. _Two days in the dark, pissing in a bucket.  He could have died._ He breathed out slowly.  But he had not.  He had not died and most likely, his mother had.  There were a lot of things Hux could justify with that knowledge.  
  
The chief steward, Mr. Celine, arrived shortly and they were able to haul Organev to the upper decks and into the captain's quarters.  Hux instructed the steward to care for their new passenger as he saw fit and then left for the bridge to oversee the Caligula's departure from port and entry into the Gulf of Finland.  
  
He had looked terrible.  Dirty, and sweaty, squinting and blinking away tears from the light of the dim cargohold, staggering to his feet and then immediately passing out from two days crouched awkwardly in a crate.  But he had been sweating, his skin had been damp and his breath had been strong and wet against Hux's skin as Kylo's head had lolled against his shoulder.  He had been heavy, his body healthy and thick with muscle.  He would live.  
  
=====================================================  
  
Hux assigned the continued care and oversight of their passenger to the ship’s steward.  Louis-Ferdinand Celine was a twenty-four-year-old Frenchman who smoked like a chimney and cooked like the ship's galley was an insult to food.  You could die happy while eating one of his meals, if only for the knowledge that you then no longer had to finish it.  Louis was valuable for other reasons.  He had studied to become a doctor before deciding that he disliked being around sick people and could generally be relied upon to assist wherever was necessary without question or complaint.  He always arrived on time and sober, and had a keen love of the French Symbolists.  Hux found that he cared more for intelligent conversation and medical attention than he did for the pleasure of a well cooked meal.  Some of the crew were of a different opinion, but as ship's food went, that onboard the Caligula was really only slightly below average and thus could not be, in Hux's opinion, a major reason for complaint.  
  
It was the evening of July the twenty-first, almost one day exactly since they had left port in Petrograd and Hux was leaning against the portside window in the galley watching Louis pound chicken cutlets on the counter like they might still be alive.  
  
Hux had just gotten off duty and been relieved by his chief mate, an Irishman named Tomás Ó Croidheáin, or Tom Crean, depending on how ethnically sensitive you felt like being.  Tom was an excellent chief mate, completely unflappable.  When Hux had first taken him on, he had just returned from and an expedition to the Antarctic in which his ship had been crushed by pack ice, leaving the entire crew stranded for more than a year.  Hux had seen him steer through a swarm of German torpedo boats with German code buzzing across the radio and no discernible reason why the Caligula hadn't already been blown out of the water.  He had weaved through them deftly, occasionally calling in a request to engineering, or asking for a measurement from the navigator, all while smoking a pipe and whistling tunelessly as if he were rowing a boat through Hyde Park on a warm summer day.  
  
Nevertheless, the Baltic was entirely under German control these days, the run to Stockholm had been largely foolhardy and daring the Gulf of Finland had been worse.  Hux found himself on edge, pacing the decks while off-duty and jerking awake in the night.  The movements of the ship felt different from his temporary bunk in the junior officers’ quarters and it unnerved him.  
  
"How is the Prince?"  
  
Armitage had not disclosed the exact nature of their business in Petrograd until after their successful departure from its port.  Later that evening, however, he had called a general officer’s meeting just before shift change and announced the existence and identity of their new passenger.  He felt it was their right to know and, as they were not planning on making port again until Oslo, in Allied controlled waters, the added risk seemed much outweighed by the idiocy of trying to hide the Russian prince away in his quarters for the entire length of the journey.  
  
Louis lit a cigarette and began dipping the cutlets in a mixture of reconstituted powdered milk and eggs, then rolled them in breadcrumbs.  "He is recovering well.  Water, rest, and a wash were more than enough.  He's like an ox."  Louis paused in his work, spreading his hands to demonstrate the breadth of Organev's shoulders.  "Would have made a good peasant."  He lit the stove and set a skillet over the flame, spooning a dollop of lard into the pan and looking at it with sheer disgust, there was no butter.  "His French is quite good."  
  
Armitage nodded, unsurprised.  "Does he require anything?  Our next port is Oslo, but that is some days out."  
  
Louis shrugged and began draining the potatoes as he waited for the skillet to heat up.  "What do I know of the needs of Princes?  He is well; he is reading your books.  He said that he would come to dinner."  
  
Armitage looked out the window, crossing his arms.  He considered going to walk the decks again until dinner was served, probably in another twenty minutes.  He considered walking down to the engine room where their chief engineer, Anna Shchetinina, was monitoring their speed.  She was overworked, being the only engineer on this voyage with just a skeleton crew of technicians to assist.  Her husband was British and she had emigrated with him to England years before, but she remained a Russian at heart and he knew she kept a photograph of the Tsarina in all her imperial regalia tucked inside an Orthodox Bible by her bunk.  Organev had stayed in his cabin the night before and she deserved, perhaps, a word of warning that she would be, in all likelihood, dining with the His Imperial Majesty, the Tsar in exile, that evening.  
  
He allowed his gaze to wander out across the waves, watching them roll seamlessly, one into another.  _The Tsarina is dead,_ he thought to himself. _Long live His Imperial Majesty Tsar Benjamin Kenobi Organev._ No body had as of yet been recovered, but it was only a matter of time.  
  
"Which books?"  
  
Louis removed his cigarette from his mouth and looked off into the middle distance over the stove, holding out one hand in front of him as if preparing to deliver a soliloquy, "'Like many intellectuals, he was incapable of saying a simple thing in a simple way.'"  
  
Armitage raised an eyebrow, "I never knew you met Proust, and yet he describes you so well."  
  
Louis smiled and put his cigarette back in his mouth, then continued speaking around it as he fried the cutlets, "'Everything great in the world comes from neurotics.  They alone have founded our religions and composed our masterpieces.'"  
  
"Yes, thank you, you have made your point.  His Imperial Majesty has shunned all the great British authors and selected the single French novel available to him.  You have won the great literary battle of 1918."  Hux pushed away from the wall and turned to leave.  
  
Louise smiled triumphantly and turned away from the stove to continue quoting Marcel Proust at Armitage's retreating back.  "'Time, which changes people, does not alter the image we have retained of them.'"    
  
"'The only paradise is paradise lost!'"  
  
Armitage was already out the door.  
  
=====================================================  
  
No more than half an hour later, Armitage found himself back in the presence of Louis, sitting down the table from him in the officers’ mess.  Tom Crean, the chief mate, was taking his supper on the bridge as he did every evening while on duty, which left them with a company of five for dinner, four officers and their royal guest.  Across from Louis sat the second mate, a young British girl by the name of Rose Weld and next to her, the chief engineer, Anna Shchetinina.  Armitage sat at the head of the table with Mrs. Shchetinina on his left and the Tsarevich Organev on his right.  There was a brief moment of silence as all those present who wished to pray before their meal were allowed to do so in accordance with their beliefs or lack thereof.  Then Hux opened a bottle of wine, one of the few trappings of a civilized meal on which Louis insisted when at all possible, and directed the steward to serve.  
  
Ms. Weld, who also functioned as their Marconi radio operator, had once made the mistake of lamenting her broken French in Armitage's presence.   Upon hearing this and considering it an operational concern for their radio operator to not be fluent in a language spoken with such frequency in the waters near their home port, Armitage had immediately insisted that all officer meals be from then on conducted entirely in French to help her gain proficiency.  This was, of course, applicable only when Mr. Crean was not present out of politeness for his lack of familiarity with the language, in which case they would default back to English, the only language common to all.  
  
Louis had been delighted by this decision, while Mrs. Shchetiniana, like many of the other non-French officers, bore it as she did all things, with begrudging resignation and without complaint.  
  
"We can, of course, converse in English if you prefer,"  Armitage had turned to his right to fill Organev's glass, "but Mr. Celine tells me your French is quite good and I fear Russian is not a language we all have in common."  
  
Organev nodded politely to the table.  "You will forgive me if my French is at times a bit rusty."  
  
He was wearing a loose knit seaman's sweater and drab grey work pants lent to him by the chief mate.  Mr. Crean was the only one whose clothes had any hope of fitting across Organev's broad frame, and even they showed some strain at the shoulders.  The cuffs of the pants rode up rather pathetically to his mid calf when he sat, making him look all the more larger-than-life, a giant in their midsts.  
  
Ms. Weld smiled shyly at him as Louis passed her a bowl of mashed potatoes.  "Your accent is quite lovely Mr., I mean" she faltered, "Mr. Tsarevich, sir."  She looked about a bit uncertainly.  "I was expecting you to sound like Mr. Khaslik, or maybe Mrs. Shchetiniana, but it's quite different.  Your French, I mean.  It's very good.  Not that the captain's is bad, or..."  She stopped, turning pink with embarrassment as she realized she was talking herself into a corner.  
  
Mrs. Shchetiniana broke in, "Ms. Weld, have some respect, His Imperial Majesty sounds like the captain the way King George sounds like Tom Crean.  No offence intended, Captain."  She tipped her head toward Armitage, who nodded in acknowledgment.  "You would do well to draw no comparisons between the two.  As to me, my French was learned in engine rooms and on shipping trawlers, it has neither the grace nor the refinement befitting His Imperial Majesty."  
  
Tsarevich Organev allowed his gaze to drift slowly across the table.  "My uncle once told me, 'All men are made equal when gathered together around the same table.  To believe otherwise is hubris, to act otherwise, folly.'"  He accepted a plate from Louis, plied high with mashed potatoes and a double portion of meat, then turned to Ms. Weld.  "For the moment, you may call me Ben."  
  
Ms. Weld smiled in thanks, then glanced briefly at Mrs. Shchetinina, apparently unconcerned by her chastisement, before turning to the captain.  "Well anyway, I find it quite interesting, the differences.  I always thought you spoke quite well, Captain, you and Mr. Celine are always going on and on about books and whatnot.  What does that mean, you are like Mr. Crean?"  
  
Armitage sighed and began sawing into his cutlet.  As predicted, it had been over-tenderized to be as thin as boot leather, and then fried till it was almost as tough.  "To you, I am Russian, but in Russia, I am Chechen.  It's a bit like being an Irishman in England."  He managed to cut off a piece of cutlet and brought it up, inspecting it at the end of his fork.  "I would, however, prefer not to discuss all of our respective genealogies at the table."  Out of the corner of his eye he caught Ben staring at his hand where it held the fork aloft.  He quickly brought it back down, resting his fork on his plate and curling his fingers into his palms.  "We will be passing the Åland Islands tonight.  Everyone sleeps with their clothes on and their boots by their bed.  They are as much at war as Russia and Finland."  
  
"Yes, Captain."  Came the resounding response.  
  
The conversation turned.  The Western Front came under discussion, along with America's recent entry into the war as an active combatant and how it might tip the balance in the trenches.  If anything could tip the balance in the trenches.  
  
Armitage picked his knife and fork back up, Kylo was going to see his hands.  He had already seen them.  It didn't matter.  
  
"With all due respect, Mr. Celine, you know nothing, about hardship or about war."  Mrs. Shchetiniana was bitter and dismissive as she looked across the table at the young Frenchman.  
  
"It is my countrymen who are fighting and dying for the preservation of all of Europe, Mrs. Shchetiniana.  The trenches spread across my homeland.  France stinks with death and runs red with blood, while your people fight each other in a senseless civil war.  I believe I am in a position to speak on the subject."  Talk of the Western Front had, unfortunately, led them to talk of the lack of an Eastern Front, which led to a discussion of how the Russians' pulling out of the war might be characterized.  Mrs. Shchetiniana maintained that the hardships and losses suffered by the Russian army were immeasurable and that a separate peace was logical and would have occurred with or without the October Revolution.  Louis saw it as cowardice and as a betrayal.  
  
"Well I don't see how either of you can even argue this.  The only one here who has seen the ground war is the Captain,"  Ms. Weld interjected.  
  
Armitage looked up from his plate as all eyes turned to him.  He raised both eyebrows in reproach, then looked back down, cutting carefully into his chicken.  "The nature of the war has changed considerably since it's beginnings.  I didn't see a single tank, or a trench.  There was no gas, no indirect artillery fire, no grenades.  It was late summer and we were still receiving rations.  I had a rifle."  He lifted his fork and took a bite, there was a long pause as he chewed and swallowed.  "There was no order to it.  Our training was shoddy and haphazard, inconsistent.  Troops were undisciplined, communication near to non-existent and if someone had a strategy, they certainly didn't share it with anyone else.  From what I understand, this has remained relatively consistent throughout the war, on both fronts.  In Russia we were spread out over hundreds of miles.  In France they have been fighting over the same five feet for the past three years.  A lot of people are dying and it's a senseless waste, I wouldn't wish it on anyone."  
  
With that, he pointedly turned back to his plate, closing the discussion.  He could feel himself being observed, but kept his eyes down.  
  
=========================================================  
  
The next day they came within sight of Sweden, hugging her coastline past Stockholm and continuing southwest, towards the straits that would lead them into the North Sea.  It was a beautiful July day.  They made good time over calm seas with the sun sparkling off the water and only a light breeze breaking the stillness around them.  Louis had just come up to the bridge bringing cold tuna sandwiches and hot coffee for Armitage and Ms. Rose Weld, who would remain on duty through the lunch hour.  Having brought enough for himself as well, Louis passed Ms. Weld her lunch, and then sat himself down in the navigator's chair next to the captain, who was gazing down to the deck below.  
  
Benjamin Organev had come out of his cabin at some point earlier that afternoon to stretch his legs and enjoy the cool breeze and the warm sun.  First running a few laps around the deck, he had then switched to calisthenics, dropping down into press-ups and then squats, before grabbing the pull-up bar that had been affixed to the deck for exactly that purpose, and pulling himself up in smooth, easy motions.  He had braided his hair back from his face and stripped down to the undershirt that had been lent to him shortly after his arrival.  It strained against his chest as he moved.  
  
Louis chewed on his sandwich and sipped at his coffee, enjoying the view along with the captain, who seemed to have not yet noticed his presence.  Then, after a particularly loud slurp from Louis, the captain jerked and looked to the side.  Louis wordlessly handed him his lunch, which he took before turning his gaze forward again, this time directing it a little higher, out towards the water.  
  
"I can get you some water, Captain, if you would prefer that to coffee."  
  
"I'm quite alright Mr. Celine, thank you."  
  
"You seem a bit flushed, I would hate for the sun to be getting to you."  
  
"It is my natural complexion, Mr. Celine.  I was built for cloudy skies and long, dark nights."  
  
"Beautiful view today, though."  Louis hummed and sipped his coffee.  "That being said, I could see how it might make one wish for long, dark nights."  
  
"That will be quite enough, Mr. Celine."  Armitage continued to school his gaze on the empty horizon.  
  
"Good thing the Russians decided for revolution.  With that face on the rubel no one would have gotten anything done."  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Celine."  
  
Louis looked down at the Russian prince consideringly.  Organev's face was flushed and slightly blotchy with exertion and with his hair pulled back, his ears stuck out like sails.  "Well, perhaps not the face, but if it were a full-length portrait, the country would have been lost."  
  
Hux cleared his throat pointedly.  "Ms. Weld, if you would be so kind as to give me the report of all radio activity for the past twelve hours, thank you."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Louis hummed to himself as Rose started in on her report.  It was a beautiful day.  He continued to sip his coffee and gaze down at the deck below.  
  
==================================================  
  
By the wee hours of the morning on the twenty-fourth, they had made it down the coast of Sweden and were preparing to enter the Öresund Straits, past Copenhagen, and cross into the North Sea.  Early in the war the Danes had mined their side of the straits at Storebælt and Lillebælt but the Swedes, refusing to relinquish their neutrality, had not.  They had, however, removed all channel markers and switched off the lighthouse at Öresund, leaving non-Swedish vessels to fend for themselves as they navigated the narrow passageway between the Swedish mainland and Sjælland, in Denmark.  Hux had made the crossing many times now, both under the direction of Captain Phasma and leading his own crew, but it was still a hair-raising journey and he appreciated having all hands on deck for the attempt.  In service of this, Hux always took over the second half of the night shift on the evening before, allowing his chief mate a few hours sleep so that they might both be on duty at first light for the crossing.  
  
The bridge was still and almost silent at that time of night.  Armitage listened to the waves licking, whisper soft, at the sides of the ship and to the dull hum of the engines, as he looked out at the lights twinkling off the coast of Sweden.  The sea was calm, just as it had been throughout the past few days.  The stars were out.  
  
Then, like an apparition, Kylo Ren appeared in the doorway.  He stepped onto the bridge and crossed the floor to stand by the window.  Huge and hulking and yet unknown and unknowable, he walked and stood in silence, as if only a shadow of some other being, unrecognizably distorted by an unforgiving cast of the light.  
  
He contemplated the water.  
  
Armitage spoke, breaking the silence.  "We call you Tsarevich, but you are the Tsar now.  It is unlikely that Leia Organeva has survived."  
  
Kylo said nothing.  
  
"I heard your father was killed in the revolution."  
  
Kylo noded.  "I killed him."  
  
"That was the rumor.  I found it hard to believe."  
  
"Well believe it now.  It's the truth."  
  
Armitage hummed noncommittally and keep his gaze focused out into the darkness.  
  
"He was..."  Kylo began and then stopped.  "It doesn't matter.  We were fighting.  We always fought."  
  
There was a long moment where no one said anything at all, then Kylo started up again, his voice calm and somewhat distant.  
  
"The Bolsheviks had just taken control.  Before."  Kylo hesitated, then continued.  "Han had supported the February Revolution.  Leia and I were put under house arrest immediately following the abdication, but Han was not.  He was..." another pause, "...negotiating with the Provisional Government.   We were allowed the newspapers then and I would read about his speeches.  He sounded just like he always sounded, spouting whatever he thought people wanted to hear and just talking and talking.  Then in October, the Bolsheviks took control and he was thrown under house arrest as well and he still just..." Kylo began pacing, hands clenched at his sides, "...just didn't understand.  He would stand there, day after day, going on and on about Marx and what a great leader Lenin was and spouting more and more bullshit to anyone who would listen and joking around like he was trying to get out of paying his bar tab and I just couldn't listen to it anymore."  Kylo's voice had slowly grown louder, his shoulders tense and his face pinched into a deep scowl.  
  
He took a deep breath and stopped his pacing, unclenching his fists and forcing his shoulders back down.  He turned to face back out towards the sea.  "I just.  I threw a candlestick at him."  
  
Both Armitage and Kylo stared out over the Baltic as if it contained all the secrets of the universe.  
  
"I threw a candlestick at him and it hit him right in the head.  He stumbled back, tripped over an ottoman and caught his head on the table.  It broke his neck."  
  
Armitage nodded, as if he had known this story all along and was now only getting confirmation.  He sat down into the captain's chair and settled back, sighing and looking up at the ceiling in contemplation before returning his gaze to the sea.  "Sometimes I wonder how many people I've killed."  
  
Kylo turned to him sharply, frowning but not saying anything.  
  
Armitage continued staring outward into the night.  "Back in St. Petersburg I would take bets.  Sometimes I would take a bet that I knew someone couldn't afford.  Sometimes someone would lose a bet that they couldn't afford and I would hear that they had killed themselves."  He paused and then continued.  "Or I would give better odds to the men who distributed coal so I would always be sure to get some when a shipment came in.  Then I would hear that a woman down the street had frozen to death in her home."  Armitage turned to look at Kylo.  "I was with the Russian Second Army at Tannenberg.  I don't think I fired my rifle once, but afterward our commander committed suicide.  Maybe the defeat was my fault, I was, at least, a part of it.  Maybe by failing to kill, I also killed.  Maybe I have killed a thousand men."  
  
Kylo turned away, scowling, "I hate your riddles.  Everything is connected: all of it is your fault and therefore none of it is your fault," he mocked, glaring out into the night.  "I take responsibility for my actions.  I caused my father to die, I killed him, you're bullshit philosophy won't change that."  
  
Armitage hummed again, face impassive.  "It's not a philosophy.  It's just how life is.  I make my choices and you make your choices and people die.  That's it."  
  
"So, what are you saying?  We should all just stop trying because it won't change things anyway?"  
  
"No, I'm saying we should try harder because life is tentative and everything we do is important and I'm saying that sometimes, if you want something, you have to put everything on the line to get it and even then, it might not be enough.  I'm saying that sometimes people die, not because they are killed, but because no one was trying very hard to keep them alive and maybe that's its own kind of murder."  Armitage's gaze was cool and steady.  "You killed your father with a candlestick.  Maybe you wanted him to die, and maybe you just didn't care enough about whether or not he lived."  
  
Kylo leaned against the window a while longer, then went to sit in the navigator's chair.  He sprawled down in it with his legs stretched out, tucking his chin into the collar of his sweater like a child.  "I am the Tsar of Russia now.  All Russian lives are my responsibility."  
  
"Yes," Hux replied, eyes still staring out straight ahead, "and before this war is over, you will have killed millions."  
  
==============================================================  
  
They made it through the Öresund Strait without incident and came into port in Oslo on the afternoon of the twenty-fifth to refuel before beginning the final leg of their journey across the North Sea to the British coast.  Not wishing to tempt fate, Organev had stayed out of sight onboard the Caligula while most of the crew was allowed a few hours shore leave to stretch their legs.  Hux was among those who had ventured into the city and, upon his return, sought the man out to discuss preparations for their arrival in London the following morning.  
  
He knocked on the door of the captain's cabin.  After a moment, Organev opened it and gestured him inside.  
      
Hux brushed past into what had, until very recently, been his own quarters.  "I purchased some proper clothing for you and was able to get a telegraph off to London.  It was a bit vague and obviously a lie, but a bizarre enough lie that someone should have sent word to your uncle.  With any luck he is already at court in London, but if he's not he will be soon."  
  
"He's not already expecting me?"  
  
Armitage turned, raising an eyebrow in surprise.  "No, why would he be?  As far he knows, you're either dead or a prisoner of the Red Army."  
  
"Yes, but then you were sent."  
  
The other eyebrow went up, then fell, Armitage's face becoming more rueful.  "No one sent me."  
  
Kylo looked at him skeptically.  
  
"What?  You think there was some grand mission of the Allied forces to preserve the monarchy throughout Europe?"  Armitage scoffed.  "Well think again.  Russia was already on it's knees before the revolution and now it's economy is virtually nonexistent and it's tearing itself apart from the inside out.  Europe stopped caring about your family the second Russia pulled out of the war."  
  
Hux laid the clothing he had brought with him out on top the dressing table.  It was a lovely suit, dark, and as fine as he could afford.  Kylo's entry into London would be dignified, if nothing else.  "But don't worry, as soon as this war is over I'm sure they will all be ready to come pick the corpse clean should Russia not survive into the latter half of the century."  
  
"Then how am I here?"  
  
Hux turned around, finding himself almost nose to nose with Kylo, who had crowded up behind him and now stood, unabashed, in his personal space, glaring down at him.  "Because I brought you here."  
  
"You came to get me.  Why?  Where's your self-interest?"  Kylo loomed in closer, taking advantage of his extra two inches of height just as he had in years past, only now he was not just tall, but also wide.  He blocked Hux in, completely engulfing him with his frame.  
  
"Well?"  His voice was rough and on the edge of angry.  
  
Armitage matched Kylo's glare for a moment, then slide his eyes away to look over Kylo's shoulder.  "I saw an opportunity, clearly not all the wealth of the royal--"  
  
Kylo cut him off, growling in frustration as he stepped away, running his fingers through his hair.  "Why are you being like this?  I know you.  You knew it was me.  You didn't so much as bat an eyelash when you saw me, I know you knew it was going to be me!"  
  
Hux's mouth narrowed as he pressed it into a thin line and continued to say nothing.  
  
Kylo spun back around.  "You know me!  Don't try to pretend you don't, because you do.  I know that you do."  
  
Hux stepped forward, mouth still narrowed and eyes glaring, but this time meeting Kylo's gaze.  
  
His eyes flicked to Kylo's mouth, twisted and downturned into a frown, then back up.  
  
Kylo caught the look.  He reached out to cradle the side of Hux's face in one large hand, stroking the sharp cheekbone with his thumb.  "Just tell me.  You know me."  
  
Hux's eyes flickered down to Kylo's mouth again and stayed there.  Slowly, slowly, he moved forward, bringing his lips to touch Kylo's, then stopped, breathing gently against Kylo's mouth as he allowed himself to be kissed.  
  
Kylo groaned, then broke away to mouth at Hux's shoulder.  It wasn't a bite so much as a pressing of teeth, open-mouthed and frustrated and possessive.  Hux's hands went immediately to the buttons on his jacket, and then his shirt.  He stripped out of them, letting them drop to the floor as Kylo worked his way up his neck, sucking and biting into the crook of his jaw.  He unfastened his trousers and let them drop to the floor as well, then, drawing away from Kylo, sat back on the bed and bent to untie his shoes.  
  
Pulling off his socks and kicking out of the last of his clothes, Hux watched Kylo strip in the middle of the room, still looking impatient, pissed of and possessive.  He pulled Kylo towards him to stand between his legs and pressed a small tin of vaseline into his hand.  He had retrieved it from his trouser pocket, it was the same vaseline he smeared daily on his hands and feet to keep his frostbite scars from drying out and cracking in the salty sea air.  
  
Armitage crawled back onto the bed, drawing Kylo on top of him and pulling him in for a kiss.  He licked at the roof of Kylo's mouth, tongued at the crooked line of his teeth and bit at his too-soft lips while Kylo breathed into him, kissing him back.  Shifting onto one arm, Kylo brought a hand up to trace the line of Hux's pale neck before burying it in soft red hair and leaning in to take control of the kiss.  
  
Armitage drew back, then leaned in again to lick softly at Kylo's upper lip before rolling over onto his stomach.  He pressed back onto his knees, lifting his ass in the air and burying his face and chest into the wool bedspread.  His hands gripped the edge of the mattress tightly.  
  
Kylo drew in a deep breath and ran a hand down the length of Hux's exposed back, from his shoulder blades to his tailbone, and then further, feeling the swell of his ass.  He kneaded it, watching it's soft curve distort as he cupped one cheek and then the other, before dipping his thumb in between.  
  
"Can I?"  
  
Hux nodded into the mattress.  
  
He could hear Kylo open the tin and then felt as a cold wet finger ran between his ass cheeks, rubbing at his entrance, then pressing carefully inside.  Kylo brushed a hand back up Armitage's back and into his hair, rubbing his face against the soft skin at the curve of his spine and breathing him in.  Hux moaned quietly as he felt the finger slide in deeper.  
  
Kylo pressed in with a second finger.  Sitting up higher on his knees, he traced the line of Hux's spine with his tongue, pausing to suck and bite at every notch in the vertebrae, leaving a ladder of pink teeth mark in the smooth, white skin.  
  
Hux was breathing hard and moaning into the rough wool under his cheek.  He could feel Kylo all around him, pressing into him with his fingers, biting down his back, and pulling at his hair.  He felt stuffed full and stretched.  It ached somewhere deep in his chest, drawing another moan out of him, and he couldn't tell if it was from the stretch or from having Kylo so close.  He reached back with one hand to grab at Kylo's thigh, feeling reassured by the strength he felt there.  His fingers curled around it tightly and he could feel the scratch of his scars against smooth skin where he clung to it with the stubs of his ruined fingers.  He breathed in a shuddering breath and buried his face deeper into the bedspread.  
  
Reaching the top of Hux's back, Kylo sucked a deep bruise into the nape of his neck, and then bit gently into the thick muscle at the joint of his shoulder as he removed his fingers.  
  
He shuffled a bit on his knees to reposition himself.  "Are you ready?"  
  
Armitage nodded into the blankets.  
  
Kylo ran his hand through Hux's hair, softly this time, brushing it away from his face.  
  
"Tell me."  
  
Armitage nodded again, then took a shallow breath and answered, "Yes."  He took the hand that had been clutching Kylo's thigh and brought it back to the edge of the mattress, then spread his legs wider, arching his back. _I get to have this,_ he thought to himself, tilting his hips up in invitation. _Please, I get to have this._  
  
Kylo took him by the hips, big hands resting gently against Hux's iliac crest as he bent to kiss both cheeks of his upturned ass.  
  
"My god, Armitage."  Kylo breathed, kissing the bruises he had sucked into the base of his spine.  "You have no idea.  I.  God."  He ran a hand up Armitage's back, then returned it to his hip.  He breathed out slowly through his nose as he shifted his grip, spreading Hux open, and lining himself up.  He pressed inside.  
  
Armitage shuddered, grabbing at the edge of the mattress with both hands until his knuckles turned white.  
  
It hurt.  
  
It hurt a lot.  
  
But having Kylo close always hurt, so maybe that made sense.  
  
"Armitage, beautiful,"  Kylo draped himself over top of Hux as he sank in deeper, one hand gripping firmly at Hux's hip and the other snaking around his chest to pull them flush as he bottomed out, rolling his hips and grinding them together, "my firebird."  He kissed Armitage between the shoulder blades, then let go of his chest.  Shifting his weight onto one arm, Kylo pulled out slowly and then sank in again, following through with a quick snap of his hips.  
  
Hux gasped, his breath coming in short, stuttering gulps.  Two fingers had been a dull ache, but this was so much more.  Kylo burned and chaffed inside him.  He wanted it to stop, but also, he never wanted it to stop.  He wanted Kylo as close as he could get him for as long as possible.  His eyes started to water and tears began rolling down his face.  
  
Kylo felt the hitch in Hux's breathing as he drove in again.  He stopped.  Shivering, feeling loose lipped and incoherent, he leaned forward to kiss and lick at Hux's face, tasting the salt of his tears.  
  
"Beautiful.  My firebird.  My Armitage, what's wrong?  Something's wrong.  I'm hurting you."  He murmured and breathed against Hux's skin, one hand still on Hux's hip, holding them flush together and rocking very slightly.  
  
Armitage clutched at the arm braced against the bed by his shoulder.  He pulled it to his chest.  "Don't stop."  
  
Kylo breathed heavily into the short cropped hair at the back of Hux's neck, then nodded, carefully pulling out and easing back in.  
  
Armitage breathed shakily against the burn.  "Don't stop."  "Don't stop."  He repeated it over and over with every stroke until Kylo sped up again, and then it became "Kylo."  "Kylo."  Like a litany until Ben finally shuddered and came, spilling inside him.  Armitage could feel him pulse, once, twice, three times, each time pressing in a little deeper and twitching with a full-body shiver, before finally collapsing onto his elbows, spent.  
  
Pulling out with a sigh, Kylo coaxed Armitage onto his back, snuggling into the crook of his shoulder, and bringing Hux's arm up to wrap around his side.  He let his forehead rest against Armitage's thin chest, breathing in slowly for a few minutes, before looking up into Hux's tear-stained face.  He reached out with one hand and gently traced the tear-tracks and felt around the edges of a red-rimmed eye as it gazed back at him steadily.  "What happened?"  
  
Armitage could feel the come leaking out of him and onto the bed.  He felt chaffed and raw in a way that he knew would only get worse in the morning.  It didn't particularly matter though.  He broke eye contact and moved to rest his cheek against Kylo's hair, pulling him closer into his arms like he had done so many times before so many years ago.  
  
"The wind got in my eyes."  
  
Kylo let the subject drop.  
  
After a few minutes, they moved under the blankets and extinguished the bedside lamp.  Armitage smiled up at the ceiling.  It was familiar, staring up into the darkness with Kylo breathing softly at his side.  
  
"Did you always know."  Kylo's voice whispered softly beside him.  It was deeper now, more a rumble than a lilt, but still comforting.  
  
"Know what?"  
  
"Who I was.  Who I am."  
  
"No.  I found out the day I was conscripted."  
  
"How?"  
  
"I saw you."  
  
Kylo glared at him in the dark, then turned his head to bite Hux lightly on the chest.  "Stop being so difficult."  
  
Armitage cuffed him in return, then told him the story, beginning with Phasma's proposition onboard the Fionia, of training to become a chimney sweep, sneaking into the Solodnikov home, stealing the egg, seeing Kylo, returning to his apartment, and finally getting conscripted into the army later that afternoon.  
  
Kylo hummed, "That doesn't seem very like you, stealing, taking a gamble like that."  He ran his fingers carefully through Armitage's hair, stroking the white strands at his temple away from his face.  
  
Armitage said nothing.  
  
"So it's still at home, hidden in your apartment?"  He nuzzled his nose into Armitage's neck.  "I like that."  
  
"It was until three weeks ago.  I sold it in Petrograd.  Where do you think I got the money to smuggle you half-way across Russia?"  
  
"Oh."  He looked up at Hux, solemn for a moment, as if it hadn't occurred to him that his rescue had been a rather costly proposition.  Then he smiled, tackling Hux and rolling them over to bring Armitage on top so he could bury his face in the crook of Hux's shoulder and bit at his neck.  "Well, then, you owe me an Easter Egg.  The one you stole was meant for me, not my mother.  You should be ashamed, selling it for your own purposes."  
  
"You are awfully bitey, and spoiled."  
  
"I've always been this way."  Kylo looked up at Armitage, smiling unabashedly.  
  
Hux brushed a strand of hair away from Kylo's face, then traced the edge of his cheek with his fingertips.  "Yes.  I suppose you have been."  
  
====================================================  
  
Armitage woke up early.  His nose itched.  Kylo had turned over in the night, drawing Hux across his back like a blanket and pulling him close.  Hux opened his eyes, blinking into the curls at the nape of Kylo's neck.  
  
He stayed there for a moment, just breathing.  His back felt hot where Kylo had sucked bruises into it and his backside ached.  He shifted and could feel where come had dried on his thighs and crusted to the sheets. _Disgusting._  
  
Pulling away from Kylo, he crept out of bed and over to the washstand.  Then, pouring a bit of water into the basin, he dampened a cloth and began to clean between his legs.  It came away pink.  He looked at the cloth consideringly for a moment before rinsing it out and continuing to clean, a bit more carefully this time. _That is certainly not ideal,_ he thought to himself.  Though there didn't appear to be a lot of blood.  He inspected himself carefully with one finger, then applied a little vaseline, before rubbing the same into his hands and feet as was his usual morning ritual, and pulling on his pants.  
  
He quietly emptied the basin out the window, then refilled it with clean water and washed his face.  Combing his hair carefully in the mirror, his gaze drifted to Kylo's sleeping form in the bed behind him.  He could admit to himself that he had been avoiding Kylo for most of the voyage.  It hadn't been hard to do, he was the captain, he had duties, it had been more a matter of simply not seeking him out.  
  
It had been over seven years since his conscription and subsequent untimely departure from St. Petersburg and he had been afraid, perhaps more than afraid, to meet the man that he had known as Kylo Ren.  Louis had said it earlier, a quotation of Proust's which he knew to be true.  'Time, which changes people, does not alter the image we have retained of them.'  He knew he had changed, and that Kylo must have changed, but to reconcile the Kylo Ren he had known and so desperately still loved with the Tsarevich Benjamin Kenobi Organev, felt impossible.  It felt terrifying.  He had not wanted to meet the man and find his Kylo gone, faded into a tired afterimage in his mind's eye, the shadow of a St. Petersburg that no longer existed.  
  
He paused in his dressing and turned to watch Kylo sleep.  Kylo's chest rose and fell gently with his breathing and he snored so softly it was almost a purr.  
  
Kylo had remained unchanged.  He had become the man he had always promised to be, larger-than-life, uncomplicated in his emotions and uncompromising in his following of them.  He had always been royalty, Armitage had just chosen not to see it.  
  
Kylo shifted and woke slowly as Armitage turned back to finish dressing.  He rolled onto his back to look at Hux through heavily lidded eyes, his hair tousled and spread across the pillow like a dark cloud.  
  
"When did you become such an early riser?"  He held out an arm, sleepily waving Armitage towards him.  
  
Hux stepped in close, smiling softly.  "Sometime after I learned to stop feeding strays and allowing them into my home."  
  
Kylo pulled Hux down onto his lap, giving him a quick kiss and returning the smile.  "And yet here I am, a stray.  Will you allow me into your home?"  
  
Hux raised an eyebrow and reached out with one hand to trace the strong line of Kylo's nose with his finger.  Then, realizing what he was doing, let the hand drop back down onto his lap, out of sight.  "You've been sleeping in my cabin for the better part of a week, that's as close to a home as any I have right now."  
  
Kylo continued smiling up at him, showing a line of crooked teeth.  He plucked Hux's hand out of his lap and brought it back up to his face, kissing the fingers.  "And you have been feeding me too."  
  
Shaking his head, Armitage smoothed Kylo's hair back and kissed the crown of his head.  "We will be in London by midmorning.  I need to be on the bridge."  
  
He stood up and stepped away towards the door with Kylo rising to follow.  
  
Before his hand could touch the doorknob, Kylo had pulled him in for another kiss, pressing him up against the doorframe and carefully exploring his mouth.  It was slow and languid, a sleepy morning kiss and after a few minutes, Kylo stepped back again, allowing Hux to leave.  He stood there naked, his eyes still shuttered with sleep and his mouth red.  
  
Armitage took Kylo's face in his hands and kissed those beautiful eyelids, the dark line of his brows, the plains of his cheeks, and the bridge of his nose.  He was reminded of those times when he was young, when food was scarce and he would eat his last heel of bread bite by bite.  He would hold each piece under his tongue, allowing it to dissolve slowly in his mouth, as if by savoring every scrap, every taste, it would somehow be enough. _This is enough,_ he would think to himself, _this is enough and I am full.  Even if there is no more and will never be anymore, I do not need it because this is enough._ He licked carefully across Kylo's lips and then leaned their faces together, closing his eyes and pressing in closer, breathing in the scent of Kylo's skin and feeling the light scrape of Kylo's stubble against his lips. _This is enough._  
  
He pulled away.  Kylo was still smiling softly at him, though now with a questioning tilt to his head.  Armitage ran a thumb over Kylo's cheekbone, then released him and once more turned to leave.  
  
"I'll be on the bridge."  
  
===========================================  
  
Kylo emerged onto the bridge as they came into port and Armitage watched him out of the corner of his eye.  It was only his third time seeing the man dressed as befitted his true station and as he did, a few words of Voltaire's sprang involuntarily to mind.  'I would rather obey a fine lion, much stronger than myself, than two hundred rats of my own species.'  
  
Armitage turned away.  He hated Voltaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: painful sex (there is explicit consent and no one is being hurt deliberately but sometimes shit happens), reference to disfigurement from previous chapter
> 
> _In Search of Lost Time_ is a seven volume novel by Marcel Proust (1871-1922). It follows the narrator through adulthood as he reflects over his childhood memories and the loss of time and lack of meaning to the world.
> 
> I kinda tried to look up some of the stuff involved in running a ship, but was mostly lazy about it so prepare for a million inaccuracies. Also, during this time the Baltic was entirely under German control and it would have been very unlikely that anyone from England would be sending a shipping vessel through there.
> 
> The officers of the Caligula are all based on real historical people whom I thought were interesting. But they are 100% fictionalized versions of said people, they just share names and some backstory elements with them.
> 
> Anna Shchetinina (1908-1999) was a Soviet merchant marine sailor and said to be the world's first woman to serve as a captain of an ocean-going vessel. 
> 
> Thomas "Tom" Crean (Tomás Ó Croidheáin) (1877-1938) was an Irish seaman and Antarctic explorer from Annascaul in County Kerry.
> 
> Rose Weld supposedly worked at the Newport News Shipbuilding and Dry Dock company as an engineer during WWI, but I only found one source on her, so maybe she’s actually made up, especially since a rose weld is a type of weld.
> 
> Louis-Ferdinand Celine was the pen name of Dr. Louis Ferdinand Auguste Destouches (1894-1961) He was a French novelist, pamphleteer and physician who wrote in a working class, spoken style and is said to have modernized French literature. He is most famous for the novel _Journey to the End of the Night._
> 
> Thanks for reading :) Find me on tumblr [harlanhardway](https://harlanhardway.tumblr.com/)


	6. The Dream of a Ridiculous Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylo POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: mention of disfigurement from previous chapter  
> Disclaimer: Kylo's opinions are not my opinions.
> 
> Thanks again to my lovely beta reader [MargaretKire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MargaretKire/pseuds/MargaretKire/) ([mothdustmouth](https://mothdustmouth.tumblr.com/) on tumblr)

  
  
"Raylana and I will be moving back to London for the time being to support your introduction at court."  Lyosha looked at Ben consideringly.  "You look good, healthy.  As soon as you're fitted with a proper suit we will get some portraits made, maybe overlooking the Thames, somewhere recognizable.  The people need proof that you're alive, that the Organev line lives on."  
  
Ben sat in Lyosha's front parlor, listening with only half an ear and looking out the window at Hyde Park across the way.  Despite Armitage's telegram, Lyosha had not been in London for his nephew's arrival three days before and Ben had been forced to introduce himself to Lyosha's household staff with nothing but his face to prove their relation.  The Cali had needed to return to Portsmouth as soon as possible and had left after his disembarkment, so he had spent the next few days in an odd kind of urban solitude trying to gain access to the Organev family's London assets, getting fitted for a new wardrobe, and lounging around his uncle's townhouse.  
  
Part of the difficulty in contacting his uncle had been that Lyosha had adopted an anglicisation of his name and was known in the United Kingdom as Luke Skywalker, not Lyosha Schastlivtsev.  It was silly and fanciful, quite like his uncle, who had left Russia years before to live as a gentleman rancher in the Highlands of Scotland.  Ben's sister, Raylana, had been sent to join him shortly after her twelfth birthday.  The idea had been for her to be raised at court in London, closing Russia's ties with Great Britain.  But it seemed Lyosha had simply brought her to live with him in Scotland and, rather than being educated in the London courts, Raylana had  grown up practically feral in the mountains.  She had come with her uncle to London and Ben was weary of her, she seemed to have developed a romanticised view of the Russia she had left behind.  
  
"Since when do you care about the fate of the Organev line?"  Ben could feel the bitterness in his own voice.  Speaking with his uncle and sister earlier that morning had made him feel tired all the way down to his bones.  Neither of them had been witness to the chaos of the last few years, and when he heard them talk about Russia, it made him want to take them by the shoulders and shake them, shouting in their faces, 'There is no more St. Petersburg!  The Russia you remember is gone and it is never coming back!' but just the thought of doing so was exhausting, so instead he sat, looking out the window and feeling bitter.  
  
Lyosha peered over at him, "I left Russia and kept Raylan and myself out of the spotlight for your sake, so as not to muddy the line of succession.  Now, however, you need a show of strength and we are willing to step back into the spotlight to show our support.  You would do well to recognize the favors that are being done for you."  Lyosha's blue eyes were distant and chastising and Ben was reminded of his mother, who's brown-eyed gaze was so different and yet, somehow, the same.  
  
He felt, for a moment, like a small boy again, crying into his royal robes and screaming that he did not want to play with the Archduchess of Austria, that she had been mean to him and had called him a crybaby.  He could remember his mother looking at him, her eyes sharp, but distant, as if she weren't really seeing him, as if instead maybe what she was seeing was a clock.  She looked at him like he was a clock that kept running down, but instead of needing to be wound, he needed his eyes dried and his hair stroked and to be warned against showing strong emotion, to be told that he would not be called a crybaby in the future if he simply did not cry.  
  
Thankfully, Ben's conversation with his uncle was interrupted when a visitor was shown into the parlor, an English gentleman by the name of Count Pruitt Oswald III.  He was a tall man, his manner stiff, formal and excruciatingly British.  Lyosha addressed him in English and, after the briefest greeting and introduction that good manners would allow, Ben let the conversation drift past him unheaded, returning his gaze to the window.  
  
He thought of Armitage.  
  
He had met Armitage for the first time when he was seven years old, having snuck out of the palace and onto the streets of St. Petersburg.  In retrospect, he couldn't quite remember why.  He had been mad and wanted answers, and though he hadn't been sure to what questions, he had somehow been certain that Peter I would help him.  Surely, Peter I, the great visionary, architect of St. Petersburg and founder of the Russian Empire, would provide guidance to his most worthy heir.  It had all seemed so clear in the safety of the palace, but in the dark of the cold streets, his courage and his conviction had flagged.  He had been peering out over the Griboyedov channel, squinting against the wind, and trying to convince himself that he was not lost and alone, when a tall, older boy approached him.  
  
The boy had been very rude, standing there in his ragged, oversized coat with his pale, dirty face and hard stare, asking prying questions.  Ben remembered feeling suddenly very exposed, his skin itching with awareness of his own vulnerability.  He had said something brash and haughty to cover up his own fear and, to his great surprise, instead of robbing him and dumping his body in the river, the boy had taken him to see the Bronze Horseman.  
  
The boy had stood by while Ben raged at the world, crying and screaming himself into exhaustion, and then sat with Ben when he collapsed in defeat in front of the Admiralty.  Staring out into the night with his clear green eyes, the boy had sat with him on the back of a marble lion and quoted poetry at him and for the first time in a long time Ben had felt, not understood, but maybe acknowledged.  He had felt like maybe the boy knew that some things could not be explained, some feelings were too big for reason, too strange for logic, they could only be accepted, like the inevitability of winter, and allowed to run their course.  
  
Then, as if he was some kind of lost pet or wayward younger brother, the boy had taken him home, fed him and wrapped him in warm blankets.  Not demanded anything, not pushing for information or payment or even an explaination, the boy had simply looked at Ben with his clear green eyes, given him his name, and accepted the one Ben had chosen to give him in return.  It was comfortable and comforting, but he had not expected to be back.  
  
Except that only a few months later, he had felt that dark thing growing inside him again, that ball of uncontrollable rage and pain and fear, and he had found himself, once more, sneaking out of the Hermitage and onto the streets of St. Petersburg.  This time, however, the streets were not quite so dark or so empty; he had been jumped before making it three blocks.  Stripped out of his winter clothes, he had been left, bruised and dirty, shivering in the snow.  But rather than crawling home in shame and defeat, he had made his way north, across the river, to sit on a shabby little stoop in an even shabbier apartment building in one of the poorest neighborhoods of St. Petersburg.  
  
Maybe if he had been made to wait a long time, he would have left and that would have been the end of it, but within a few minutes, there came Armitage, letting him in and lighting the stove and making him fetch their water, teasing him and giving him tea and looking at him with cool green eyes as if it were normal, as if he belonged.  
  
Winter in St. Petersburg came to mean more than the Hermitage and court and the social season.  It came to mean a small apartment in Kolomna, hot tea and scratchy wool blankets, and a quiet boy with bright red hair and a pale, serious face.  The appartment was a place outside of time and he went there as often as he could.  
  
He would bring Armitage presents, small things he could leave behind and that no one at the palace would miss: a tortoiseshell comb, a copper snuff box, a silver-plated salad fork.  In return, he nicked a small collection of tokens for himself.  He had a hand rolled cigarette, a bit of tea, and a button from Armitage's oversized winter coat wrapped in a rough linen handkerchief and squirreled away under his mattress.  Over the summer, far from St. Petersburg, when he was feeling unmoored and lost in his own head, he would smell the tea and the old tobacco and rub at the smooth surface of the button, and be calmed by the proof that the appartment was real, that he was not just imagining the strange boy with the red hair and the hard eyes who made him feel like he belonged.  
  
Time passed and the skinny, pale, redheaded boy got taller and older, until one winter Ben returned to St. Petersburg to find he had suddenly become a man.  Not a broad, burly man like his uncle Chekrov, who grew his hair in great chops down the sides of his face and looked like he could go three rounds with a bear, and not a swaggering, big-talking man like his father Han, who some people said could charm the paint off a barn door and talk the tide into changing directions.  No, Armitage remained Armitage but now taller, with a slightly firmer set to his shoulders and a slightly more prominent arch to his brow.  His jaw had squared and just the hint of stubble had dusted his sharp cheekbones.  His wrists flashed sharp and white against the cuffs of his coat and his hands had looked somehow stronger and more assured as they reached around Ben to unlock the door.  
  
Armitage had not seemed to notice that anything had changed.  He teased Ben, calling him the little Tsarevich Kylo Ren and tweaking his ears.  Ben had been overly aware of the touch, his ears burning as Armitage's newly deepened voice dripped through him like honey, pooling uncomfortably in his gut and making him sweat.  He had felt hot in the confines of the small room and acted irritated and snappish for the rest of the evening, mortified by his own discomfort.  When it had been time to sleep, he had turned his back to Armitage in embarrassment and humiliation.  
  
Years went by, and more and more Ben had began to notice the women being pressed his way at court, soft and beautiful, filling out their gowns like freshly ripened fruit.  Armitage, by contrast, seemed to grow only more striking.  He was elegant and sharp, his edges honed like the blade of a knife, cutting through pretense and frivolity with a brutal honesty that would leave Ben shivering, feeling invigorated and very much alive.  
  
It had become a part of how he maintained his equilibrium.  He would live through the summer keeping himself as much as possible in a daze of obedience and decorum.  Then, in St. Petersburg, he would nod politely and hold his tongue, following the direction of his mother, listening to the babbling of the court, dancing when he was told to dance and smiling where he was told to smile and fucking who he was expected to fuck.  He could do this, drift through his own life in an almost opiate haze of complacency, because he had known that there was a small corner of the city that was all his own.  He had caught the firebird, and as long as he had the firebird, nothing could touch him.  Which was why it had been so hard to understand when one day Armitage had been gone.  
  
He had come to the apartment to find the locks changed.  It had made him angry.  Sometimes Armitage would be sore with him, calling him spoiled and a brat and refusing to talk to him, and instead just sitting by the window smoking and reading one of his newspapers.  He had never changed the locks before, but it seemed like the kind of passive aggressive, overly-complicated, pain-in-the-ass thing that Armitage might do, so Ben sulked and waited by the door.  
  
Then someone came home to the apartment that was not Armitage, an old woman with a hard, leathered face and a baby on her hip.  She had yelled at him, told him to get out of her doorway and stop penning around other people's homes.  He had started to back down the hall in shock and confusion, second-guessing where he was, but then, changed his mind and instead burst forward, pushing past her into the apartment once she opened the door.  She had beat him with her cloth carry-all while he looked around and she must have been hauling some sort of hard vegetable in it, potatoes, or maybe beats, because it had hurt.  
  
Ben had recognized the bed.  It's rough wooden frame was still pushed up against the far wall, but it had been painted white and Armitage's felted wool bedspread had been replaced by a quilted one.  There was a baby bassinet where the old wooden chest should have been and the little table by the window was now an overstuffed chair, it's backrest worn smooth and threadbare, darkly stained from years of someone's greasy hair resting against it.  Someone's dirty socks and undergarments were hanging, limp and sad, over the stove and the whole room smelled strongly of cooked cabbage and stale breath.  Armitage was gone.  
  
Ben turned away and walked back down to the street.  He had always come in the evenings and stayed only until the early morning.  He knew there was a Jewish family living somewhere close by that Armitage bought food from, but he didn't know where or who.  
  
He found his way back to the house where they had played cards once earlier that winter.  It had been the only time he had met anyone from Armitage's life.  
  
The building had been empty.  
  
Ben stared up at it.  The fire had been recent, maybe from a dirty flu, the creosote that had built up over the long winter catching light in one of the chimneys and burning the building from the inside out.  
  
He felt like throwing up.  
  
He followed their footsteps from years ago back to the Bronze Horseman and stared up at it just as he had done on that first night, looking for some sign of what had happened, for some sign that it had happened at all.  It was a very long night and somewhere around the first light of dawn, he remembered crying out of sheer loneliness and loss.  He told himself over and over again that he had not imagined it, that Armitage was real and that he would come back in a week and all would be as it always had been and he would yell and Armitage would tease him and it would be fine, but in the cold and dark of the night under the immutable gaze of Peter the Great, he couldn't quite believe it.  
  
Stumbling back, exhausted, to the Hermitage the next morning, he had begun to feel foolish for his midnight panic, only to have it all rush back as he realized with dawning horror that he had lost track of the calendar.  Spring had arrived and the household staff had already started cleaning and airing out the palace for the Easter celebrations.  He ran to his rooms, bursting through the door to find his warm winter bedspreads already switched out for a light spring duvet and the mattress flipped.  
  
He pressed the staff, asking anyone if they knew what had happened to the things he had stashed under his mattress, begging for the return of his cigarettes, his ratty handkerchief, his button.  No one knew anything, or if they did, they were not saying.  
  
He asked at the Citizens' Registration Office, nothing.  It wasn't unreasonable, really, not to be able to find any record of a young Chechen man who had come to Russia sometime in the last fifteen years and then suddenly disappeared.  Ben realized he wasn't even sure how Armitage spelled his name.  Maybe it wasn't even really his name.  Khaslik was Russian, shouldn't he have a Chechen last name?  
  
Easter came and went and the family moved to their summer residence and the weeks turned to months and Ben began to wonder if it wasn't all just something he had made up, if perhaps it hadn't just been a game he had played to feel less alone, if he hadn't just left the palace and wandered the streets of St. Petersburg at night, making up stories of the prince Kylo Ren and the firebird.  He had always been a fanciful child, everyone told him so, and as time passed it seemed less and less likely that there really had been a red-headed Chechen boy with clear green eyes and a sharp smile, who had taken him in for years without so much as knowing his name.  
  
He missed Armitage.  Even if he was only missing a dream, it had been such a lovely dream and he felt it's loss like an ache in his chest.  The directionless anger, frustration and helplessness that Armitage had always been able to sooth began to fester inside him, turning him into a violent young man, prone to lashing out indiscriminately.  He felt like the wind blowing across the eastern plains, gaining speed and strength as they swept unimpeded over Siberia until they crashed into cathartic turbulence against the Urals.  Except that now the mountains were gone.  No one stood up to him, his fits were ignored when possible and tolerated when not.  He would scream himself hoarse feeling impotent and angry and alone.  
  
Armitage used to look him right in the face and let him rage and vent, crossing his arms and tugging his coat tighter around himself as if against a harsh wind coming across the Baltic sea.  It had made Ben feel powerful and grounded.  Maybe it was just that someone was listening to him.  Someone was listening to him and looking him in the eyes, as if to say, _I see you and I know you.  You are the wind and you can blow as hard as you like, because that is your nature, just as it is my nature to feel you against my face and not be afraid._  
  
Then the rage would pass and Ben would feel warm all over, like the sun, as if all the bile had suddenly drained out of him.  Armitage would take off his coat and sit by the stove, relaxing back into his chair like he too could feel the warmth and the calm, and smile softly up at Ben like it was normal and fine and really no different than the wind.  
  
Years passed and the war came, and then the revolution.  His mother and he had been taken to Yekaterinburg and isolated from the world awaiting trial, when a man arrived, offering them the possibility of escape.  They could be smuggled out of the compound as prostitutes and put on a train to Petrograd where further help awaited, but they needed to leave now, there was no time.  His mother had refused.  She thought it was a trick to humiliate her, a Bolshevik plot to degrade her station and undermine the dignity of the royal family.  Ben had mostly agreed but found that he did not care.  
  
Six hours later, they had shoved him in a packing crate with a jug of water and a bucket to piss in and for the next unknown length of time there was nothing but heat and darkness and the rumbling of the train.  He had been later told it had probably been two days.  It had felt longer, crouched, unable to sit up, sweating and suffocating, sucking in air through an open seam in the top corner of the packing crate.  
  
He was half delirious by the time the crate was finally pried open and when he looked out to see a head of bright red hair and sea-green eyes, he had not been surprised.  It could have been King George or Lenin himself standing there and he would not have been surprised, but it made sense that it was Armitage.  Of all the twisted hallucinations, of all the heat-induced mirages, Armitage would always be the one that his brain would chose and he was happy, in a way, to get to see him again.  
  
Then he had passed out cold and when he woke up, he was lying on cool linen sheets, a damp cloth over his eyes and a tall, drab young man sitting in a chair next to him, reading.  Ben squinted at the title of the book and read it allowed, "A Throw of the Dice will Never Abolish Chance."  It was French.  He wondered where he was.  
  
The man looked up and smiled.  "He wakes and he speaks French, we are halfway to being friends already."  
  
The man, he soon learned, was a Frenchman named Louis-Ferdinand Celine.  He was a writer, an uninspired chef and also, it seemed, Ben's new caretaker.  They were on a British cargo ship named the Cali and the captain, one Armitage Khaslik, had informed the crew that they would be stopping to refuel in Oslo and then delivering their passenger, Tsarevich Organev, to his relatives in London.  
  
Ben came to dinner the next evening with his face schooled into his most pleasantly vague and noncommitally diplomatic expression.  He didn't know what to think.  That Captain Armitage Khaslik of Portsmouth and his Armitage Khaslik of St. Petersburg where one and the same seemed both astronomically unlikely and somehow, impossibly, the truth.  There Armitage had sat, his bright red hair combed severely to one side, smiling cooly across the table like they were passing acquaintances, distant relations that used to play racquetball together while on summer holiday.  It was only due to years of practice that Ben was able to sit calmly, addressing the rest of the crew, and smiling politely while he internally reeled in shock.  What had happened?  What could possibly have happened?  
  
Then he saw the hands, Armitage's beautiful hands, pale and slender with long elegant fingers.  Ben knew those hands.  He had spent hours watching them roll cigarettes, turn pages, pour tea.  Those were the fingers that had stroked his hair in the middle of the night, those were the wrists he had swatted and pulled at when he was looking for attention.  Ben looked at Armitage's hand where he was holding up his fork.  It had been disfigured and brutalized, bits hacked off and then healed over , mounds of white scars and calluses built up where the nail beds had been.  It must have happened years ago.  He could only guess how.  
  
In that moment, all his questions seemed to fade into the background, unimportant.  Armitage was here and he was real and alive.  Ben was taken by an overwhelming urge to warm those damaged fingers in his mouth.  To lick at them as if he could make it all better, as if those hurt fingers represented all of the suffering and horror that Armitage must have gone through in the past seven years and if Ben could take them into his mouth, he would be able to suck all of it back out of him through his fingers.  
  
Armitage noticed him staring and the hands disappeared under the table.  
  
"Benjamin."  
  
"Benjamin."  
  
Ben startled out of his thoughts.  
  
"What?"  
  
Lyosha looked at him mildly, it was the expression he made when annoyed but trying not to show it out of politeness and because they were in company.  "The Count was just extending you an invitation to a garden party in honor of the Royal Flying Corps."  
  
Ben glanced back and forth between his uncle and the Count, "Do I need to sign something?"    
  
His uncle sighed in exasperation and turned back to Count Pruitt Oswald III, presumably to apologize for his nephew's lack of proper decorum, but Ben was no longer listening.  
  
=======================================================  
  
When Armitage had left with his ship and crew back to Portsmouth, their farewell had been brief and formal.  This did not surprise Ben in the least, as Armitage was nothing if not a private person, but they had made no plans of when they would next see each other.  So, though his days were mostly spent being reintroduced into polite society by his uncle, Ben also kept an eye on the shipping news, watching for any mention of the Dumanovsky Trading Company.  The Cali was scheduled to come into port in London only a few weeks later, and Ben made arrangements to be at the docks for it's arrival.  
  
When the day arrived, he watched in anticipation as it came in, and then in horror as the captain stepped into view to direct the unloading of the cargo.  
  
He had a flashback to being eighteen again and sitting on Armitage's doorstep waiting for a man who would never come home.  
  
He recognized the captain as Armitage's chief mate, Tom Crean, but Armitage was nowhere in sight.  He studied the faces of the crew, a few he recognized, but many he did not, until he caught sight of Mr. Celine.  He waved, trying to get his attention.  
  
The Frenchman waved back, "Well if it isn't His Majesty Organev!  Come on aboard, you have certainly saved me some trouble, I have something for you!"  
  
Ben sprinted up the gangplank to stand on the deck and follow Louis into the galley.  "Something for me?"  
  
Louis walked over to the prep table, unhooking the safety latch on one of the drawers and pulling it open.  He took out a small brown cardboard box.  "Mr. Khaslik knew we were headed through London again so he charged me with getting this to you."  Louis smiled, "Apparently I am cheaper and more reliable than the postal service."  
  
"Oh."  Ben looked down at the box in his hands.  It was tied closed with a bit of string and, 'Benjamin Kenobi Organev,' was written on top in neat block letters.  He looked up at Louis pointedly.  
  
Louis looked back at him, then reaching inside his jacket to pull out a cigarette, and leaned back against the prep table.  
  
Ben continued to stare pointedly, "How about you smoke that cigarette outside?"  
  
"Yeah, but then I wouldn't get to see what's in the package."  
  
"What if I want to open it alone?"  
  
Louis lit the cigarette and settled back, taking a drag, "Feel free to pretend I'm not here."  
  
Ben debated just putting the thing in his pocket and leaving, but then decided he did not want to wait.  Besides, he still had questions, which Louis might be more inclined to answer if his curiosity were satisfied.  
  
He set the box on top of the prep table, pulled away the soft white string, and took off the lid.  There, nestled in a soft bed of shredded and crumpled newsprint, was an egg.  He picked it up.  It looked like it had once been an ordinary hen egg, but it had been carefully lacquered over with paint and varnish until it practically glowed it was so white.  When he lifted it, the top fell open, swinging freely on a delicate paper hinge to reveal a walnut shell, also painted and lacquered, but this time a soft yellow-orange color.  Inside the walnut shell was a delicately folded paper bird.  
  
Ben held the bird up to his face to examine.  He imagined Armitage, bent over his desk, folding it with perfect, precise movements.  The paper was thin and a rich golden color that matched the walnut shell and he could see that something had been written on it.  Turning his back to Louis, Ben carefully unfolded it, trying to preserve the sharpness of the creases.  It was a poem, written out in an elegant calligraphy, precise like the folds of the paper bird.  Ben studied it for a few minutes, then folded it up again and put it in his breast pocket.  
  
He turned back to Louis.  Louis was holding up the walnut shell and blowing out a cloud of smoke in consideration.  "Armitage really is one of the few men left in the world with any poetry in him."  
  
"Where is he?"  
  
Louis took another drag on his cigarette as he carefully placed the walnut back inside the egg.  "Back in Portsmouth I imagine."  
  
"Is he sick?"  
  
"Not that I'm aware of.  Last I saw of him he was up to his ears in engineering journals and big dull tomes about," he waved his hand, dispersing the smoke somewhat, "cartography or something."  
  
"Then why is he not here?"  Ben snapped.  
  
Louis looked back at him calmly.  "He's not the captain anymore."  
  
Ben opened his mouth to protest but Louis continued before he had the chance.  "He took off from port in Stockholm without word or explanation, sold cargo that wasn't his at an embarrassingly low price to a bunch of communists and yes, he returned with the crown prince of Russia, for which the King of England pretends to be extremely grateful but, let's be honest, it's all a bit uncomfortable.  To my understanding Mr. Khaslik has known the Dumanovsky family for a long time, so they may not have completely let him go but galavanting off to Russia with their ship and cargo was a bit of a breach of trust."  Louis hummed to himself, "Which is just as well really, I was terrible as a steward.  I'm just hitching a ride to London right now."  
  
"I compensated them for their troubles.  If anything, the expedition turned them a profit.  They can't just do that!"  
  
"That doesn't change the gamble he made with company property.  Look," Louis sighed and finished his cigarette, flicking it out the window, "let me show you something."  He led the way up the stairs to the bridge, then went to stand in front of the captain's chair, resting one hand on the tiller and the other on a small panel built into the console next to it.  
  
"Sometimes when things got tense onboard, and I mean really tense, like we were one step away from becoming U-boat fodder, I would see the captain stand just like this."  He looked down.  "I didn't think anything of it, everyone has their ticks, I figured it was just his power stance, or whatever.  Then, one day, I'm bringing Mr. Crean his evening coffee, and trip over the carpeting.  I slammed my elbow right into the console and spilled hot coffee all over Mr. Crean."  Louis knocked the heel of his hand hard against the console in demonstration, popping the panel loose.  He pried it the rest of the way off.  "That's probably the most excited I've ever seen that man, he jumped right up and ran over to the supply cupboard for a towel, cursing me up one side and down the other.  And,"  he turned the inside of the panel to face Ben, "that's when I saw this."  
  
It was a fairly recent photo, only a few years old.  Ben remembered when it had been taken.  He hadn't wanted to be photographed in profile, it always emphasized his weak chin and his big nose, but his mother had insisted.  It felt like a long time ago.  
  
"I figured, I don't know."  Louis set the panel back in place, pressing it flush.  "I put it back before Mr. Crean saw and I didn't recognize who you were so I just figured either it wasn't even his photo or maybe the captain had a sweetheart somewhere that no one knew about, but then the trip to Petrograd, and then you."  
  
He turned away to light another cigarette and stood there smoking it for a moment.  "Armitage Khaslik is a great man.  I would have come onboard his ship if it had meant being an Able Seaman and spending eight hours a day scrubbing the decks."  He blew out a breath of smoke, long and slow.  "I have no idea what his attachment to you is, but I know what it means to be beloved by the princes of this world.  I have seen too many men turned into so much battle sausage in the name of god knows what for their king and country and if you are so careless with his life..."  He paused and inhaled again, "maybe no one will care.  But I will know, and you will know, that he was a great man and you tossed him away like he was trash."  
  
Louis continued to look out the window and smoke his cigarette, having seemingly nothing more to say.  
  
Ben waited a few minutes, holding his cardboard box carefully in front of himself and then, when it was apparent that Louis was not interested in a polite goodbye, he left.  
  
=================================================================  
  
A few days later found Ben unsuccessfully trying to skulk in the corner at a garden party being held in honor of the Royal Flying Corps.  Unsuccessfully because, as the event was a garden party, there were no corners, and because rumors of his dramatic escape from the clutches of the Red Army had quickly spread throughout the court, making him the subject of much titillating gossip.  
  
Having been abandoned by his cousin and uncle, who were busy mingling and making the rounds, and doing other socially well-adjusted activities he had not expected his half-feral, half-mountain goat sister to be capable of, he was doing his best to remain both unobtrusive and uninteresting in hopes that no one would try to talk to him.  He allowed his attention to drift, the voices around him to blending together until they were more like animal sounds.  He smiled and nodded at the border collie to his left, who seemed to be zeroing in on his eligible bachelor status.  He tipped his head in acknowledgement of the old battle horse on his right, who seemed to be expressing an opinion on the war on the Eastern Front.  He avoided all attempts at direct eye contact from the circling ducks, who were looking for any crumb of gossip and stood ready to fight for it and spread it around like shit on a freshly tilled field.  
  
Thankfully, he was not actually the crowning attraction of this gathering.  This was more than a polite appreciation picnic, the Royal Flying Corps was a point of great pride for Britain.  Man had taken to the skies in powered flight less than twenty years before and already they were dropping bombs on each other from the air: true technological advancement.  
  
"... Captain Dumanovsky..."  Ben caught the sound of a Russian name he recognized very well.  
  
He turned to see an elegant older woman politely addressing a young airman.  The airman was handsome, well-built with smooth tan skin and dark curly hair.  He spoke flawless English, but Ben was sure he had heard correctly.  He excused himself with a polite but slightly pained smile from the group that had gathered in a semicircle around him and stepped towards the captain.  
  
"Captain Dumanovsky, related to the Dumanovskys of the Dumanovsky Trading Company?"  
  
"The youngest son, in fact, Tsarevich Organev."  Captain Dumanovsky responded in a flawless Russian with a slight St. Petersburg accent that was music to Ben's ears.  
  
"I understand I have your family's company to thank for my timely extraction from Yekaterinburg.  I was recently informed that the captain in charge of the operation is no longer with the company, how difficult that must be, to lose such a valuable asset."  Ben tried on his best passive aggressive smile.  
  
Captain Dumanovsky did not seem to notice, "I'm afraid I can't take credit, the first my family heard of any of it was when we received a bizarre telegram from Oslo apologizing for the delay and saying the Cali had to make a short delivery in London before heading for home port."  He laughed and shook his head.  "I feel I must warn you, I have known Armitage Khaslik since I was a boy and that man does not know how to do anything in half measures.  I heard from his old captain that he used to carry a picture of you around.  You might have a bit of a stalker."  He winked conspiratorially, "If only all royal admirers proved to be so useful, am I right?"  
  
Ben stiffened and stepped back, but before he could formulate a response, the woman, who had been standing off to the side listening in, interjected in heavily accented, but nonetheless mostly fluent, Russian, "Oh, how scandalous!  I did hear about your daring escape, to think it was spurred on by an unhealthy obsession, how delicious!"  She turned with delight towards Captain Dumanovsky, "Captain Dumanovsky, you know this Mr. Khaslik?  Whatever do you make of it?"  
  
Captain Dumanovsky flashed a wide, white smile, "As I said, I've known him since I was a kid and the man is practically a force of nature.  No family, no religion, I haven't the foggiest what makes him tick.  I mean, the sheer guts it must have taken to pull this thing off, and that's coming from an airman!  The man's got barely two pence to rub together, so who knows where he got the resources.  
  
“Our family knew him in St. Petersburg until one day he disappears right into the clear blue sky.  We figured he might have been conscripted and that was that but then, about three or four years ago, he shows up on my brother's doorstep, half dead.  Apparently he had spent some time on the Eastern Front before, by the look of it, crawling across the whole continent and presumably swimming the goddamn, pardon my language, swimming the English channel to get here.  
  
“So we gave him a room in the attic to recover and a job working for the company to pay his board, and he's a smart guy, like I said, determined, so he gets himself a spot on a ship and after a few years makes captain and then, next thing you know, off the fucking, pardon me Madam, my language has suffered during my deployment.  Next thing you know, he disappears with a full load of iron ore and comes back with an empty cargo hold and the crown prince of Russia.  I mean, what do you do with someone like that?"  
  
The woman fluttered her hands excitedly, "My goodness, he's like the Scarlet Pimpernel of Russia, how wonderful!"  
  
"That's perfect, and it gets better,"  Captain Dumanovsky laughed, "he's a redhead!"  
  
The woman twittered into her hand, "How droll!  What a figure!"  
  
Ben could feel his shoulders coming up in anger as he listened to them giggle at each other.  "I would assume one would reward his initiative."  Ben clenched his teeth.  "He made your family quite a bit of money rescuing the heir to Imperial Russia and the son of you're king's cousin."  
  
Captain Dumanovsky smiled condescendingly.  "For which we are all extremely grateful but, really, that's just no way to run a business.  You can't let your ships be taken off on gallant rescue expeditions without warning, that's for the navy.  International shipping is dangerous enough as it is."  Captain Dumanovsky traded a look with the woman, who nodded in solidarity with his point.  "Anyway, it's not as if he's been kicked to the curb, he's still up in the attic, doing the bookkeeping, and now he's on an aeroplane kick.  I just stopped by Portsmouth the other day and he was practically swimming in engineering manuals and areal charts.  I haven't been interrogated like that since I had to make an emergency landing on the wrong side of the trenchline."  
  
"Oh goodness, Captain, you were captured?  How dreadful!"  
  
Captain Dumanovsky flashed another brilliant smile and gave a jaunty wink, "They did try.  You can't keep an airman like me grounded for long, though."  He turned more fully towards the woman and brought his hands up to demonstrate his flightline.  "You see, they had sent us out for some aerial recon over eastern France and the ground fog was just--"  
  
"Why do you say he's obsessed?"  Ben cut right into the captain's story.  
  
Both the Captain and his admirer turned to face Ben again.  Captain Dumanovsky blinked a few times.  "Well, he was always so focused, before, in St. Petersburg, on making something of himself, and then in Portsmouth he never had anyone, not really, so we always assumed that he must have left someone behind."  He shrugged.  "And then, you know, he disappears off to Russia and comes back with," the captain gestured towards Ben, "you, and then his old captain, Captain Fisher, told us she had seen him buy a copy of your photograph once.  So, clearly there was no one.  He's just weirdly obsessed with royalty."  Captain Dumanovsky raised both eyebrows and looked at Ben expectantly.  Then, when Ben did not respond, he turned back to continue his conversation with the woman.  
  
Ben pressed his mouth together into a thin line.  He knew he was frowning and that his behavior was inappropriate and impolite, his mother would have sent him away by now.  He interrupted again.  
  
"He did have someone."  
  
Captain Dumanovsky and the woman turned towards Ben again, now more noticeably irritated.  
  
"He had me.  He left me behind in St. Petersburg, and he came back for me.  He knew me.  He knew me from before."  
  
Captain Dumanovsky and the woman looked at Ben in open shock.  The woman recovered first, opening her fan and waving it in front of her face.  "My goodness, how scandalous.  Was he a servant?"  
  
Ben turned on his heel and walked away.  
  
==========================================  
  
The Dumanovsky house was a two-and-a-half story fisherman's house near the docks in Portsmouth.  It was late in the morning when Ben arrived, but the weather had been cool and the fog that had pulled in off the sea had not yet fully lifted.  He knocked on the door.  An older woman answered and he was given houseshoes, then directed towards the third story.  He could feel her watching him climb the stairs with a sceptical eyebrow and a knowing tilt to her head.  At the top of the stairs, he knocked on the door to the attic.  It opened.  
  
Armitage stood in the doorway.  His red hair was rumpled where he had been running his hands through it.  He had taken off his jacket and waistcoat and loosened his tie, his sleeves were rolled up and Ben could see where the sweat was starting to stain the collar of his shirt and gather where his suspenders pressed the cloth against his skin.  It took all of his concentration not to lean forward and taste that tiny shine of sweat in the bow of Armitage's upper lip.  
  
Armitage stepped back, allowing Ben into the room.  For a moment they just looked at each other, everything Ben had been planning on saying had left his mind in the wake of that damp cupid's bow, that disheveled hair, and that lovely flash of soft white skin that was the inside of Armitage's elbows.  
  
"I apologize, Tsarevich Organev, I was not expecting company."  Hux was all formality and decorum, so much as his current state of undress would allow.  
  
Armitage's impersonal tone crashed over Ben like a bucket of cold water.  "You left."  
  
"I did not realize you were still in need of my services.  After delivering you to the care of--"  
  
Ben cut him off.  "You left.  You found me and you took me home and you were there for me for eleven years and then one day you just left."  
  
Armitage opened and closed his mouth a few times.  "I was conscripted, they picked me up off the street.  I didn't even get to go home."  
  
Ben waved this explanation away, "You left, and then, seven years later, just when I need you, just like before, you show up out of nowhere!  I get packed up in a fucking box right under the nose of the goddamn Red Army and the first thing I see when I get out?  The first thing I see is your face!  And then you leave again!"  
  
Armitage crossed his arms, then uncrossed them and clasped them behind his back.  He shifted his weight.  
  
"And then I get this fucking note!"  Ben pulled the carefully folded golden bit of paper out of his pocket and brandished it in Armitage's face.  "What the fuck is this supposed to mean?"  
  
Armitage crossed his arms again and squared his shoulders.  "I would think it would be very clear what that meant."  
  
"Yeah, well not to me!  I don't fucking understand it!"  
  
Armitage clenched his jaw.  "You don't understand it."  His mouth tightened as he looked at Ben, then he stepped back.  "You don't understand it."  He stared at Kylo slack-jawed for a moment.  "Oh my god, you don't understand it.  You don't speak English.  Jesus Christ, Tom Crean always did think you were a bit dim, this certainly fucking explains it."  
  
"Why the fuck would I learn English?  It's a terrible language, it all just sounds like donkey braying!"  
  
"You're... you're..."  Armitage gestured vaguely towards Kylo in disbelief, "you're the crown prince of Russia!  You had tutors!"  
  
Ben turned his back to Hux, burying his hands in his hair and pulling at it in frustration.  "It doesn't matter!  You were always smarter than me!  I've always just been stupid and spoiled and..."  He turned back around.  Ben was yelling and could feel the tears forming in the corners of his eyes.  "And now I'm stupid and spoiled and without a country!  I'm just this unwanted guest that everyone talks about in their stupid donkey-braying language and no one knows what to do with, but that doesn't fucking matter!  You don't get to change your mind!"  He could feel his hands shake and he yelled louder to keep back the tears.  "I'm not some fucking pet that you can decide you don't want anymore.  You don't get to put me out with the fucking cat.  You took me home and... and...  and now you're gonna marry me, and that's it!  You should have just left me standing there in the fucking street when I was seven because now you're stuck!  You break it, you fucking buy it!"  
  
Armitage looked at him calmly, strangely serene despite the yelling, while Ben panted at him, working up to his next outburst.  
  
"Okay."  Hux nodded.  
  
Ben stepped back from where he had been crowding into Hux's space.  He breathed in a few times, unsteadily, and blinked back his tears.  
  
He looked at Armitage.  "Okay?"  
  
Armitage nodded again.  "Okay."  
  
"Okay."  Ben took another few calming breaths, then turned towards the door.  "Okay, then get your jacket."  
  
"What do you mean, get my jacket?"  
  
Ben turned to face Armitage again, his face tight and still visibly upset.  "You said you were going to marry me, so now we're going to go get married."  
  
"We can't get married right now.  We need to issue a banns.  We have to find a church that's properly registered, and one that will marry us even though I'm not baptised.  We'll need an appointment with a Registrar. "  
  
Ben's mouth thinned.  "Well then we'll get rings and we'll make the announcement and we'll ask about the church and we'll make the appointment with the Registrar."  
  
Armitage looked at Ben for a moment, then nodded and began rolling down his shirtsleeves and buttoning his cuffs.  
  
"Okay?"  Ben watched Hux shrug into his vest, sounding nervous and young for the first time since he had walked in the door.  
  
Armitage glanced up, smoothing out his tie and adjusting his collar.  He gave Ben a small, quiet smile, "Okay."  
  
==================================  
  
It was late afternoon when Ben found himself once more climbing the stairs to the attic of the Dumanovsky household.  This time he came weighed down with two suitcases, his shaving kit, and a hat box.  Instead of knocking, he opened the door at the top of the stairs and walked in unannounced.  He put his small collection of things on the floor inside and began a cursory inspection of the room.  He walked over to shabby wardrobe in the corner and opened it, pushing Armitage's meager collection of suits to one side.  
  
"We may need some more furniture, as soon as I have a full wardrobe again closet space is going to become a problem."  
  
"You're moving in?  We're not married yet."  Armitage was standing by the window, preparing water for tea.  
  
Ben stopped what he was doing and turned around, his hands tightening on the jacket he had been in the process of hanging.  It wrinkled in his grip.  "We're engaged.  We're going to be married the week after next.  If that's not good enough for you, if we have to be fully married for me to live with you, then fine.  I will march you down to Buckingham palace tomorrow and ask King George for a marriage license.  He is my mother's cousin, don't think that I won't do it."  
  
Armitage, who had been looking at him quietly as he said this, turned back to the tea.  He nodded and didn't reply, but his mouth was soft and curled up slightly in the corners.  
  
They fell easily into their old rhythm after that.  Armitage brought up a second chair from the house below and they sat across a small wooden table from each other drinking tea and leafing through Armitage's odd collection of textbooks and literary journals, Ben being very much annoyed that he could only read the minority that were printed in French or Russian.  The window was open and a warm summer breeze drifted through the room, filling it with the smell of the sea.  
  
As the sun went down, Armitage lit a lamp on the bedside table and put away the tea things while Ben washed and climbed in bed, allowing Armitage to take his turn at the washstand.  Hux combed his hair and rubbed ointment into his hands and feet as he always did, then paused as he reached for his nightshirt.  He looked over at Kylo.  
  
Ben was sitting up in bed, his chest bare, the crisp, white sheet pooled in his lap.  He reached out for Armitage with both hands, beckoning.  Hux put down the nightshirt and walked towards him in only his drawers.  As he approached the edge of the bed, Ben reached out to unbutton them, kissing Hux's abdomen gently and easing the pale white linen over his hips before pulling Armitage towards him to straddle his lap.  
  
Ben buried his hands in Hux's red hair and drew him close, licking into his mouth and exploring him slowly with his tongue.  He drew back, looking him in the eyes.  
  
"What happened before, last time.  I don't want that to happen again.  I don't want to hurt you."  He ran a hand through the white hair at Hux's temple.  "I didn't like that."  
  
Hux looked back at him with clear green eyes.  "Okay."  
  
Ben let go of the soft red hair and rolled them carefully to bring Hux underneath him.  He ran his hands up from Armitage's hips to his chest, leaning down to kiss him as he rolled his nipples under his thumbs, feeling them harden.  "You have to talk to me."  He pulled back to look Hux in the eyes again and pinched one nipple.  
  
Hux gasped and brought his hands up to clutch at Kylo's sides as he arched into the touch.  Kylo could feel him harden against his leg.  He leaned down to nibble at Armitage's ear, then licked at the crook of his jaw, continuing to palm and tweek at Hux's chest.  "Please talk to me."  
  
"Okay."  Armitage was flushed red and breathing hard, his eyes wide.  His voice was barely above a whisper.  
  
Kylo worked his way down Hux's chest, licking and biting.  He stopped to circle a nipple with the tip of his tongue before closing his mouth over it and sucking lightly.  He ran his hands around Hux's waist, then let them drift down to his hips and over his thighs, spreading Armitage's legs so he could kneel between.  He switched to the other nipple.  "Please, please, I want to hear you say my name.  I like it when you call me Kylo.  Call me Kylo or Ben.  I want to hear you call me Ben.  Please."  
  
Hux ran one hand up Kylo's back and tentatively through his hair.  "Ben."  
  
Kylo groaned loudly and bit down hard on Armitage's chest, leaving a red welt and making Hux's hand tighten in Ben's hair as he cried out.  Ben could feel Hux pressing hot and hard against his stomach and it made his mouth water and his forehead sweet, his own cock hanging heavy between his legs.  
  
"Do you have...?"  Kylo panted, allowing the question to trail off.  
  
Hux reached over to rummage in the bedside table before pulling out a tin of vaseline and pressed it into Ben's hand.  
  
Kylo took it and continued to kiss his way down Hux's chest, massaging the muscles in Hux's legs and bringing them up over his shoulders.  He kissed the inside of one knee, then nuzzled his face into the soft, white skin of Armitage's inner thigh, running his hands down to cup his ass.  He sucked and licked at Hux's inner thigh, dipping into the cleft of his ass and teasing at his opening with slick, warm fingers.  
  
Armitage was panting, his mouth open and both hands buried firmly in Ben's hair as Ben worked his way up Hux's thigh until his nose was brushing the red curls at the base of Hux's cock.  Hux rocked his hips, thrusting into the air looking for friction, his knees splayed open over Kylo's shoulders.  
  
Kylo pulled back to breathe hotly over Hux's erection then, looking up through a mess of dark hair, licked delicately at the tip.  
  
Hux moaned and thrust forward, pushing past Ben's swollen lips and into his hot mouth.  Kylo kept his mouth soft, allowing Hux to thrust shallowly into it and tonguing at the head while he continued to run a slick finger over Hux's opening.  He looked up at Hux's face again, then, closing his eyes in concentration, wrapped his mouth more firmly around Hux's cock and sank down on it, sucking, while pressing a finger carefully into Hux's ass.  
  
Armitage continued to moan and paw at Kylo's hair, thrusting into his mouth and rocking back onto his finger.  Kylo went down as far as he could, then pulled back off, gasping for air and drooling on Hux's cock, licking clumsily at the slit as he tried to coordinate thrusting gently with his finger.  "You're so beautiful, you're so strong.  Please talk to me.  Please be mine."  He took Hux into his mouth again and pushed in deeper with his finger.  
  
Hux bore down on the intrusion and rocked back, feeling Kylo inside him, "Ben, Ben," he panted, "another, I can take another, give me another."  
  
Ben pulled up enough to gasp in air through his nose, bobbing his head as he let the tip slip in and out of his mouth.  He brought his free hand up to cup Hux's testicles, rolling them in his hand, and carefully worked another finger into Hux's ass.  
  
Hux's hands slid down to the sides of Kylo's head to trace at his ears.  His whole body was shaking and he was thrusting back on Kylo's fingers as they stretched and stroked him from the inside.  He shifted he legs up higher on Kylo's shoulders.  Ben crooked his wrist and his fingers slipped and brushed against a new place inside Hux.  
  
He arched off the bed and into Kylo's hands, letting go of Kylo's ears to claw uselessly at the sheets.  "Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, fuck, Kylo, Jesus, Ben, Oh My God!"  
  
Ben felt the spot like a soft round bump against his fingers, he stroked it gently.  
  
"Oh fuck, Ben, oh God!"  Hux's hands had found their way back into Kylo's hair and he was gripping it.  Kylo could feel him trying to hold back from thrusting into his mouth.  He pulled back enough to talk.  
  
"Do it, fuck my mouth.  I want you to come in my mouth."  Kylo leaned down again and sucked hard at the tip of Hux's cock.  He gave up trying to keep any kind of rhythm with his head as he felt Hux's hands tighten in his hair and take over.  He loosened his jaw and sucked, concentrating on breathing and stroking that spot with his fingers as Armitage thrust into his mouth.  
  
"Harder, oh fuck, yes, Jesus, Kylo!"  Armitage shuddered and came, spilling into Kylo's mouth and clenching around his fingers before going limp and boneless in his hands.  Kylo stroked him again experimentally with his fingers and Hux shivered and jumped.  Pulling his fingers out slowly, Kylo pushed up onto his arms, Hux's legs falling off his shoulders.  
  
Armitage was spread out, pliant and relaxed on the bed.  His nipples stood out hard and red against his chest and there was a dark purple bite mark just below his collarbone.  His hair was damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead, his lips puffy and bitten.  He was looking up at Kylo with hooded eyes, just a suggestion of green showing through thick, copper lashes.  
  
Kylo felt hot all over.  He could feel the blood pulsing in his cock where it hung between his legs and he went dizzy for a second, lightheaded and desperately hard.  "Can I come on you?  Please, can I come on you?"  He panted through the haze.  
  
"Yes."  
  
He could feel Hux prodding at him with his heels, drawing him closer as he moved to straddle Hux's chest.  Kissing Hux's soft pink lips, he reached down to touch himself, his hand already cramping and slick with vaseline.  He pumped slowly at his cock and breathed into Hux's mouth.  He could feel Armitage, sated and happy and spread out beneath him like a present and pulled back to look.  He thumbed at the bitemark below Armitage's collarbone, watching it grow white and then red again as he pressed down.  "Mine."  
  
Reaching for Hux's right hand, he brought it to his face to kiss and lick at the fingers, running his tongue over the ring and sucking at the scars.  He let go to brace himself on his left hand and leaned over Hux, stroking in earnest.  "You're wearing my ring.  You're wearing my ring and you're going to be mine forever.  I'm going to cover you in come and then, and then everyone's gonna know that you're mine."  
  
Armitage kept his hand on Kylo's face, tracing the lines of his nose and cheekbones and bringing his fingers back to Kylo's mouth to be nipped at.  His green eyes were hypnotising as he calmly gazed up at Kylo through his lashes.  Kylo could feel himself getting close.  
  
"I'm gonna come all over you, Baby.  You're so beautiful."  
  
Armitage traced his hand up Kylo's thigh, and Kylo's breath caught as he felt it dip in between his legs and carefully cradled his balls.  A finger stroked lightly at his perineum.  "Oh my god, I'm gonna come!"  Armitage pressed down lightly and Kylo felt it all the way through his core.   His eyes crossed and he came all over Hux's chest.  
  
Shivering and gasping and feeling punch-drunk and dazed, he reached over Armitage to the side of the bed and grabbed his shirt off the floor.  He sloppily mopped up the mess on Hux's stomach and wiped his hands.  Then he tossed the shirt aside and tucked himself up under Hux's arm, leaning against his chest, breathing slowly and steadily and occasionally tonguing at the bruise under Armitage's collarbone.  
  
After a minute he glanced up.  "Was that good?"  
  
Hux blinked at him slowly, and nodded, "Yes," then frowned and let his gaze slide past Kylo and off to the side.  "But maybe," he paused and Ben felt the bottom fall out of his stomach.  "Maybe we can work up to the other thing and try again.  Like before."  
  
Relief washed over Ben and he smiled and buried his face into Armitage's neck, giggling.  He felt lighter than air.  "I'd like that."  He giggled again.  
  
Armitage prodded at Ben's head with his chin, "What's so funny?"  
  
He pressed his lips to Hux's skin, and bit lightly at the pulsepoint, then glanced up into Hux's face.  "You always frown like that when you're planning something."  He nuzzled back into Hux's neck and licked at the bite mark.  "I like the idea of you planning our sex life from now on.  I like your plans."  
  
"Yes, well..."  Armitage huffed and trailed off, then shifted Ben in his arms to hold him tighter and stroke his hair.  
  
A few minutes later, Kylo had given up his oral fixation on Armitage's neck and was resting his head on Armitage's chest, stroking his fingers lazily through the red hair between Hux's legs, lost in thought.  "What did it say?  What you wrote me."  
  
Hux hummed softly to himself and looked up at the ceiling.  "I thought it didn't matter."  
  
"It's not going to change anything, but it matters.  I was upset, everything you say matters."  
  
Hux brought a hand up to trace the line of one of Kylo's ears where it stuck out from his nest of dark hair.  "It's just a poem, I didn't write it or anything."  
  
"But you chose it for me. I want to know what it says."  
  
Hux sighed out slowly through his nose.  "Do you still have it with you?"  
  
Kylo immediately sat up and reached over Hux to grab his pants up off the floor and fish the folded golden bit of paper out of one pocket.  He handed it over to Hux.  
  
Armitage carefully unfolded it as Kylo settled back on his chest and went back to playing with his curls.  There were a few moments of silence as Hux looked over the poem.  
  
"It won't sound the same in translation."  
  
"I don't care."  
  
"I didn't even write it."  
  
Kylo sat up a bit to look at Hux.  "Baby, would you please just read the thing?"  
  
Hux sighed and rolled his eyes in mock irritation, then put his hand in Kylo's hair and guided his head back down.  Kylo could hear him take a few calming breaths before he started speaking again.  His voice was halting and disjointed and his hand stayed firm against Kylo's head, both holding him close and making sure his gaze stayed down, away from his face.  
  
"Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,  
Enwrought with golden and silver light,  
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths  
Of night and light and the half-light,  
I would spread the cloths under your feet:  
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;  
I have spread my dreams under your feet;  
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."  
  
Ben could feel Hux carefully fold the paper and set it on the nightstand, then go back to stroking his hair, breathing slowly and deliberately.  
  
He traced what he hoped were reassuring circles into Hux's abdomen with the palm of his hand.  "That was a marriage proposal, wasn't it?"  
  
Armitage hummed but didn't answer.  
  
"It was pretty terrible.  I didn't even understand it.  Even if I could read English, I probably wouldn't have understood it."  
  
Armitage hummed again and Ben could feel him relaxing beneath him.  There was a teasing lightness to his voice.  "It worked though, didn't it?"  
  
Ben blinked a few times, then sat up abruptly.  "No!"  
  
He moved to straddle Hux's chest, grabbing his arms and holding them against the pillow, looking at Hux in mock outrage and horror.  "No, I asked you first!  I asked you and you said yes and that's it.  Your thing doesn't count, it was terrible.   I asked first!  Don't you take this away from me!  I asked you first!"  
  
Armitage looked up at Kylo in wry amusement, then his face broke into a wide smile and he threw back his head a laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Dream of a Ridiculous Man" is a short story by Fyodor Dostoyevsky written in 1877 about a man who is utterly depressed to the point of nihilism. Just as he is about to commit suicide, he encounters a young girl who re-instills in him a desire to live and a love for his fellow man.
> 
> I didn't do a lot of (read: any) research into the daily life of the Russian royal family so take all of that with a grain of salt. Kylo being able to slip in an out of the Hermitage at will might seem somewhat implausible, but he only went out during the hours when he would theoretically not have been missed and royal households were not as watertight as we might imagine them to have been. Example: Edward Jones, known as "the Boy Jones" was well known for breaking into Buckingham Palace as a teenager to basically stalk Queen Victoria. He did it multiple times between 1838 and 1841 (this is not a legend, it actually did happen) so for Kylo to pull off the opposite seemed like not too much of a leap.
> 
> "A Throw of the Dice will Never Abolish Chance" is a poem by French Symbolist Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-1898), it combines free verse and a specific typographic layout in a way that anticipated poetry of the 20th century.
> 
> Louis-Ferdinand Celine wrote, "I warn you that when the princes of this world start loving you it means they are going to grind you up into battle sausage," in _Journey to the End of the Night._ I paraphrase this quote in his conversation with Kylo. To re-iterate a previous note: this is an extremely fictionalized version of the real life French writer, the real life person never, to my knowlege, worked on a ship. I think he was serving in WWI during this time.
> 
> King George V of England and Nicholas II of Russia (the Tsar who's place Leia is taking in history for the purposes of this fic) were cousins and looked extremely similar.
> 
> I did almost no research into life in London or in King George V’s court during this period.
> 
> Okay so, the Marriage Act of 1836 allowed marriages to be legally performed by pretty much any religious group as long as everybody did all the proper paperwork. However, the royal family was and still is, exempted from these laws and thus would have had to marry in the Anglican church. I feel like Kylo is distant enough of a relative that this wouldn't apply to him though. (also the whole gay marriage thing, which blows any historical accuracy out of the water)
> 
> "Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven" by Irish poet William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! You can find me on tumblr [harlanhardway](https://harlanhardway.tumblr.com/)


	7. A Tragedian in Spite of Himself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we attempt to answer the question: Okay, but now what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, my only friend, the end. Thank you, everyone, for all your support in this little adventure. I'm a bit in shock, I can't believe it is over. It feels both like it took forever and like it all went really, stupidly fast.
> 
> The only reason I was able to write so quickly was because of the wonderful encouragement of [MargaretKire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MargaretKire/pseuds/MargaretKire/) ([mothdustmouth](https://mothdustmouth.tumblr.com/) on tumblr). I am continually in awe of her, go checkout her stuff!

  
  
Ben's footsteps rang out loudly as he sprinted up the stairs to the attic.  
  
Armitage looked up.  He was sitting, huddled next to a small gas heater that was barely strong enough to warm his legs, penning a letter to an aviation engineer he had recently begun corresponding with.  The man, a Spaniard named Juan de la Cierva, had written a few articles for "Flight" magazine and had expressed some interesting ideas about using a rotor to provide lift so that an aeroplane might be more stable at low speeds.  It was a sound concept but Hux felt it could be improved upon.  While the autogyro that was being proposed worked mostly on the same principles as that of a glider, generating lift by changing the angle of the air as it moved upwards through the free-spinning blades, Armitage felt real propulsion might be achieved if a motor was added to the equation. _Why build a windmill, when you could build a fan?_ He put down his pen and stood to greet his husband just as Kylo burst through the door.  
  
Ben was across the room in three strides, dropping his bags on the floor without looking and taking Armitage up into his arms, lifting him off his feet and kissing him thoroughly.  He pulled back with a wide smile.  
  
"Did I miss anything?"  
  
Armitage looked down at him, fighting to keep his face impassive and raising one eyebrow.  "Not much," he deadpanned.  
  
Ben grinned and kissed him again, then hitched one of Armitage's legs up over his hip and dipped him dramatically.  "Happy armistice, my dear."  
  
Hux broke into an answering smile and laughed, kissing him back and wrapping his arms around Ben's broad shoulders.  "Yes, yes, very cute.  You came back from Scotland, not from war, now put me down before you drop me."  
  
"I don't think so," Ben responded, even as he set Armitage back down on his feet, holding him close and burying his nose in his soft red hair.  "It took so long to get here.  After the eleventh, there was just no getting a train ticket anywhere."  
  
Hux turned his head to kiss Ben's ear fondly.  "Yes, the end of the Great War, how annoying.  So disruptive of everyone's travel plans."  
  
Ben kissed Hux on the corner of the mouth and hugged him close again, then turned away, still smiling, to close the door and start unpacking his bags.  "You don't fool me, I know when I've been missed."  
  
"Oh you do, do you?"  
  
"Yep."  Ben pulled out an attaché case and set it on the table next to Hux's papers, opening it and rummaging around for a second, before going back to hanging his suits.  
  
"And how is that?"  Hux let his eyes wander towards the open case. Lying on top was what appeared to be old photos of the Organev royal family.  
  
"Because it's warm downstairs in the parlor and there's fresh tea and a big oak desk for you to spread out on, but instead of working down there in full comfort and convenience, you were up here, hovering by your tiny gas stove, waiting for me."  
  
"Maybe I just like the light better up here."  
  
Ben set his shaving kit on the washstand and went to stand by Hux again, embracing him from behind and looking over his shoulder as he shifted through the old photographs.  "Yeah, and maybe you know that if you're downstairs, we'll get pulled into conversation with Mrs. Dumanovska for the next four hours and never get to have a proper hello."  He nuzzled into Hux's neck and started nipping his way up to Hux's ear.  
  
Armitage hummed but didn't dispute it.  "Lyosha gave these to you?  I didn't know you had an older sister."  
  
"I don't."  Ben bit at Hux's earlobe.  
  
"I know Raylana was not alive in 1894."  He held up a photo of the royal family from the coronation ceremony.  The newly crowned Tsarina Leia Organeva stood resplendent in her robes of state.  Next to her and slightly lower was Han Solodnikov and between them stood a little girl, maybe two years old, in a frilly white dress with dark curls framing her face in rigglets.  
  
Ben pulled away from Hux's ear for a moment to look.  "Of course she wasn't, obviously."  
  
Armitage turned a bit in Ben's arms to look at his face.  "Then who's in the photograph."  
  
Ben looked at Armitage as if he were being impossibly slow.  He pointed to the Tsarina.  "My mom," he pointed to the royal consort, "Han," he pointed to the toddler, "me."  
  
"Why are you in a dress?"  
  
Ben shrugged and went back to Armitage's neck.  "Why does anyone wear dresses?  Fashion?  It was cute?  I don't know, I didn't pick it out."  
  
Armitage looked back at the photo.  Upon a closer inspection, he easily recognized the dark eyes, the beginnings of Ben's long nose and soft jaw.  He was right, it was pretty cute.  He put the photo down and closed his eyes, tilting his head to give Kylo better access to his neck.  "I have something for you."  
  
"I like presents."  
  
"It was supposed to be for Christmas."  
  
Kylo worked open the collar of Armitage's shirt to get better access to his throat.  "You can give it to me twice, I'll pretend to be surprised."  
  
Hux hummed and threaded one hand in Kylo's dark hair, "Impatient."  
  
"Very."  
  
They stayed that way for a moment, then Hux shook himself, opening his eyes and stepping away.  "Cloths.  Off."  
  
Kylo smirked and turned towards the bed.  
  
"No, stay where you are."  
  
Kylo shot Hux a pained look, "Baby, it's November and this attic is not heated.  There's ice forming on the inside of the windows."  
  
Hux met his gaze and raised an eyebrow.  "Cloths.  Off."  He repeated, "And close your eyes."  
  
Kylo grumbled but closed his eyes and started stripping out of his jacket.  "I'm just warning you, when you see my dick and think you remember it being bigger, that's because it definitely was."  He shimmied out of his trousers and drawers, balancing awkwardly, slipping in and out of his house shoes, trying to get his pants off without touching the cold ground with his bare feet.  Hux watched fondly while pulling a box out from behind the dresser.  It was a big, flat cardboard box.  He balanced it on the seat of a chair and took off the lid, folding back the layers of tissue paper.  
  
Kylo stood in the middle of the room in only his houseshoes.  His was cradling himself in one hand and had the other clutched around himself in response to the slight breeze that drifted in from the poorly sealed windows.  Goosebumps spread across his shoulders and arms and his nipples stood out hard against his chest.  
  
Armitage reached into the box. Inside was a luxurious sable bedspread.  His hands stroked the soft fur, almost disappearing into it, it was so dense, before pulling it out and walking over to Ben.  It was rich and dark, almost black, and as he wrapped Ben up in it, his eyes caught where it spilled over Ben's shoulders, the color blending with his hair.  It matched.  
  
He kissed his way down Kylo's neck and bent to suck on one hardened nipple, pulling the fur tighter around Kylo's broad chest and backing him towards the bed.  He pushed Kylo onto the bed while he stripped, eyes not leaving Kylo, who lay naked and wrapped in soft dark fur, sprawled out waiting for him.  Throwing off the last of his cloths, Armitage sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Kylo onto his lap, kissing him open-mouthed and hungry.  He ran his hands up and down Kylo's back, carassing the smooth skin and hard muscle, warm under soft fur.  
  
Ben smiled into the kiss and leaned back a little against Hux's hands, "I feel like this might be more a present for you."  Hux could feel Kylo looking at him, but for a moment he couldn't focus.  His eyes were blown wide and his face flushed, he was panting and his mouth felt wet and raw from Ben's stubble.  They had barely just touched, but he was already painfully hard and could feel his erection throbbing between his legs.  His hands slipped down to Kylo's ass and he groaned.  It was all he could do not to let his eyes roll back in his head and just rut into Kylo right there, coming all over his chest from having him naked and warm in his hands.  
  
"Jesus," Kylo seemed to hear his thoughts because he rocked forward, rubbing his cock against Hux's stomach, "it's so hot how much this turns you on."  Armitage's grip tightened as he brought Kylo closer and Kylo complied, lifting up onto his knees and pressing flush against Hux's chest, his ass hovering over Hux's cock.  He lowered back down onto his lap, letting Hux's erection rub against the cleft of his ass.  Armitage groaned and pulled the cheeks apart to rut between them.  
  
Kylo rocked back against his cock.  "You like that?  You want to fuck me?"  
  
"Can I?"  Armitage gasped as he ran his hands over Ben's backside, rubbing and kneading at it with both hands.  He was so hard he couldn't see straight and was having to concentrate on breathing.  
  
Instead of responding, Kylo reached over to the bedside table for the vaseline.  He opened it to start spreading some on his own fingers but Hux stopped him.  
  
"Can I?"  
  
"Precious."  Kylo brought Hux's hand to his face to kiss the knuckles.  "Beautiful."  Taking the first two fingers into his mouth, he sucked on them lightly and tongued at the scars, then kissed the ruined tips.  "You're fingers are good for many things, but that is not one of them."  
  
"I know, but can I anyways?"  Armitage looked up into Kylo's face, rubbing his thumb over Kylo's lower lip and, still kneading at his ass, rocking up into him.  His eyes were hooded and he looked almost drunk from having Ben in his lap.  He knew his fingers weren't long enough anymore, maybe his left hand, but no, still probably not enough.  Kylo would have to prep himself regardless but that wasn't the point.  "I just want."  His breathing stuttered and he squeezed Kylo's ass hard and slipped his thumb into Kylo's mouth and past his teeth.  Kylo bit at it lightly.  "I want inside."  
  
Kylo sucked on Hux's thumb then pulled back to free his mouth.  "Yeah, okay," his voice was rough and low, "we can do that."  
  
Armitage slicked up the fingers on his left hand, there had been nerve damage and they were weaker, but the first two were mostly intact, and ran his right hand in soothing circles over the small of Kylo's back, kissing him.  He sucked at Kylo's lower lip, listening to him breath, and feeling the beat of his heart where their chests touched, as he slowly pressed inside with one finger.  "How is that?  Tell me how it feels."  
  
Kylo clenched down on the finger experimentally, then shifted back, working it further inside himself.  "It feels... okay." He shifted again, then smiled smugly and nipped at a spot high on Hux's cheekbone, "It feels like a finger in my ass."  
  
Hux smoothed a little vaseline onto his right hand and brought it forward to Kylo's cock.  He stroked it firmly from root to tip and back down while carefully pulling out and pressing in with his finger.  Everytime he thrust with his finger, his wrist would brush against his own erection, still hard against Kylo's ass.  "Yes, but," he continued to fuck Kylo gently with one finger and stroke his cock, dipping one finger behind Kylo's balls to rub his perineum, "do you like it?  Tell me if it hurts."  
  
"I like that you're inside me.  It doesn't hurt, you can add another."  
  
Hux pressed in with a second finger and spent a few more minutes kissing and stretching and stroking Kylo, while he squirmed in Hux's lap, warm and relaxed.  Then, carefully removing his fingers, Armitage maneuvered Ben onto the bed, laying the fur out underneath him and a towel under his hips, "on your knees, chest down, hips up."  
  
Ben did as he was told, grinning over his shoulder, "Bossy."  
  
Instead of answering, Armitage grabbed Ben's ass in both hands, spread the cheeks and blew right over his hole.  
  
"Jesus Christ!"  Ben buried his face into the fur bedspread and grabbed at the headboard with both hands, "Fuck."  
  
Hux just smirked at the back of Kylo's head and then leaned down to suck a bruise into his right asscheek while he slowly worked his fingers back inside him.  He reached around with his right hand to cradle his balls, rolling them in his hand and tugging lightly, stroking at Kylo's perineum with his thumb.  Keeping his eyes on the smooth line of Kylo's hips and back, he crooked the fingers of his left hand, searching.  He found the right spot and massaged it from both sides, stroking lightly with his fingers and pressing down on Kylo's perineum with his thumb.  
  
Kylo jumped and arched, sweat breaking out on his back as he started shaking and thrusting back and forth between Armitage's hands, trying to both move towards the pressure and away from it and searching for friction against his cock.  "Oh, fuck yes, don't stop!  Fuck, right there, Baby, that feels so good!"  
  
Hux kept up the pressure for a few more seconds until Kylo was almost in tears, then let off, going back to massaging Kylo's testicles and pulling out a little ways with his fingers.  Ben pushed back against his hand and Armitage started fucking him with his fingers, making sure to brush that spot every time.  Kylo matched his rhythm, the muscles in his back rippling as he strained against the headboard, his shoulders tensing and flexing.  "Oh my god, Armitage, Baby, that's so good, give me your cock.  I want your cock in me."  
  
Hux kissed Kylo's back, rubbing his side as he removed his fingers, "You're not ready, you have to finish preparing yourself."  
  
"It's fine, I'm ready, just give me your cock."  Ben whined and thrust back against Hux, where he was kneeling behind him.  
  
"It's not fine, you could get hurt."  
  
"Baby, please?  Come on."  
  
"Stop being such a brat."  Hux spanked Kylo hard on the ass and Kylo shuddered, throwing a hand down to grab himself by the base of his cock so he wouldn't come.  He lay there panting as he came down off the edge, and Hux reached out to stroke his hair.    
  
Kylo looked up at Hux from where he had collapsed onto one shoulder.  His eyes were glassy, his mouth bitten and wet.  Drool had smeared down the side of his chin from where he had been biting into the fur of the bedspread.  Flushed and damp with sweat despite the chill in the room, he was thrusting shallowly into his own hand, where he was still clutching the base of his cock.  
  
Armitage brushed the hair out of his soft, brown eyes.  "It's okay, Love, I'll help you."  
  
He smoothed out the towel and bedspread as Kylo rolled the rest of the way onto his side, then lifted one of Kylo's legs and eased it up and over his shoulder, spreading Kylo open like a book.  He held open the vaseline as Kylo slicked up his long, thick fingers and watched as Kylo reached down, slipping first one and then two inside himself.  Hux kissed the leg slung over his shoulder, massaging the muscles in Kylo's hips as he watched him finger himself open.  "How does that feel, Love?"  
  
"I want you to fuck me so badly."  
  
Hux reached down to touch where Kylo's fingers were disappearing inside him, feeling for how tight he was.  "Yeah," he breathed out, "yeah, you're ready."  
  
He helped Kylo back onto his knees and smeared more vaseline over his hard cock.  Kylo's hands stretched out automatically to grip the headboard and Hux positioned himself, gripping Kylo by the hips.  He started easing in slowly, sinking in inch by inch, when Kylo suddenly shoved back, taking him to the hilt in one sharp thrust.  
  
"Kylo!  Fuck!"  Hux's hands flew up to grab at Kylo's sides and he reached around to pinch viciously at a hard nipple.  
  
Kylo just groaned loudly and rolled his shoulders forward, the muscles jumping across his back as he drew himself towards the headboard and off Hux's cock.  "I said I wanted you to fuck me, not rock me to fucking sleep."  
  
Hux brought his hands back to Kylo's hips and pulled Kylo back onto his dick, snapping his hips hard against Kylo's ass and knocking him forward to brace against the headboard.  "I thought you liked it when I rock you to sleep."  He pulled out again and slammed back in, the headboard knocking loudly against the nightstand.  "You like that too, don't you?  You like being rocked to sleep sometimes, and sometimes you like being fucked into the mattress."  He reached around with one hand to stroke Kylo's cock as he fucked brutally into him.  "Well lucky for you.  I.  Can do.  Both!"  He emphasized each phrase with a sharp thrust of his hips and then spanked Kylo right on the ass.  
  
"Baby!"  Kylo convulsed and came, collapsing onto the bed and humping the towel that had been laid out under his hips as he shivered though the aftershocks.  "Fuck, I love you, Armitage, oh my god.  I love you.  I can't move, fuck."  
  
Hux pulled out and leaned over Kylo, pressing his forehead between Kylo's shoulder blades and stroking himself off onto Kylo's lower back.  "I missed you so much, Love."  It only took a few strokes for him to shudder and come.  He stayed there a moment, letting his breath even out and watching his come cool against Kylo's flushed back.  He ran his hands through the soft fur beneath them, then he sat up, climbed off Kylo and walked over the wash stand.  He cleaned himself up with a damp cloth, then rinsed it out and walked back to the bed.  Kylo was already half asleep as Armitage carefully washed his back and then eased him over to clean his stomach and between his legs, wiping the vaseline from his hand.  
  
Hux settled back into bed, warm beneath the dark sable of their new bedspread with Kylo tucked under his arm.  He sighed in contentment and turned his head to gaze out the window.  The afternoon was cloudy and gray and snow was beginning to drift down in soft white flurries.  He smiled to himself and kissed Kylo's hair.  
  
================================================  
  
Ben had only been asleep for a few minutes when a loud crash from the floor below startled him awake.  He jumped and sat up, slamming his head into a ceiling beam that ran awkwardly over the side of the bed.  
  
"Fuck!  Ow!"  Kylo collapsed back onto his pillow, clutching at his head.  "Why does she do that?  Fuck!"  
  
Mrs. Dumanovska had taken to emptying her trash out the upstairs window, letting household waste fall loudly into the bins below rather than walking it down demurely as one might expect.  
  
Hux reached up to inspect the bump on Kylo's head, running his fingers through Kylo's hair, looking for soft spots.  It was just a bruise.  He settled back down.  "I think she might be in a feud with the neighbors."  
  
"God."  Kylo rubbed at his head a few more times, wincing, before bringing his hand back down with a sigh.  "Why do we live here?"  
  
Armitage turned on his side to look at Ben.  He raised one eyebrow.  "If I remember correctly, you asked me to marry you and then moved in."  
  
Ben smiled cheekily.  "That's right, I did do that."  He let the smile drop and looked at Hux a little more seriously.  "This is fine.  The Dumanovskys are fine.  Poe is an ass, but he's not around that much and the food is pretty good, but this room is an icebox and I'm really starting to miss sour cream."  
  
Armitage frowned, "What are you talking about?  You eat sour cream all the time."  
  
"Yeah, but," he signed and looked wistfully up at the ceiling.  "Not on anything good: Borscht or Beef Stroganoff or Solyanka.  Or just: Chicken Kiev with real butter, Veal Orlov..."  
  
Armitage laughed, "I didn't realize eating koshur would be such a trial for you."  
  
Ben wrinkled his nose, "I mean, it's not that bad, just, you know, it would be nice to be able to put sour cream in my soup sometimes.  But really," he looked over at Armitage, "I know you have plans, you've been looking into this aeroplane stuff for a while now and we have money so," he shrugged, "why are we still here?"  
  
Hux looked up at the ceiling and breathed out slowly through his nose.  He drew Ben closer into his arms and seemed to gather his thoughts before beginning somewhat tentatively, "I have always known my own mind very well.  I know what I want and I know that sometimes I can be somewhat..."  
  
"Bossy," Ben supplied.  
  
"Forceful."  Hux tweaked one of Ben's ears for the comment and then kissed it.  "I also know that it's different for you."  He looked over at Ben, catching Ben's gaze with his clear green eyes, "I want you to have time to think about what comes next."  
  
Ben looked at Hux questioningly.  "What comes next?"  
  
Armitage stroked Ben's hair and looked up at the ceiling again, "What comes next with Russia."  
  
"Oh."  Ben was silent for a minute and they both just lay there, looking up at the ceiling together, Armitage quietly stroking Ben's hair.  "Mom's probably dead.  No one is saying anything for certain, but she's most likely dead."  
  
Armitage nodded but didn't reply and Ben turned over to rest his head against Armitage's chest.  
  
"I talked to Raylana and Lyosha."  
  
Hux nodded again, Ben had just returned from visiting them up in Scotland.  
  
Kylo's face tightened, "Raylana called me... she called me a lot of things.  She called me a disgrace to Russia and a traitor to the family."  
  
"Because of what happened with your father?"  
  
Ben sighed and rubbed his face into Armitage's neck, "Yeah, that too."  He rolled away onto his back again, "But mostly because I took your name."  
  
Armitage stiffened slightly, then forced himself to relax.  "You know you didn't have to, it's not important to me."  
  
Ben kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling.  "It's important to me though.  I don't want to be Tsar Benjamin Kenobi Organev.  I told Raylana that I abdicate, I'm stepping out of the line of succession.  I don't want to be a part of the government in exile.  If she and Lyosha want to fight the communists, they can.  If she wants to reclaim Russia as Tsarina Raylana Amidala Organeva, she is welcome to try.  I don't want that.  I want... I like your name.  I like that it's our name now and..."  He blinked up at the ceiling for a few seconds, breathing carefully and not saying anything further.  
  
"Hmm?"  Hux had rolled onto his side so he could watch Ben watch the ceiling.  
  
Ben was silent for a few long seconds further then, very quietly, whispered, "How do you feel about kids?"  
  
Armitage rolled onto his back again so they were once more laying side by side, looking up at the ceiling.  "They're loud, messy, and won't listen to reason or logic."  He reached down, blindly seeking out Ben's hand and gripping it tightly.  "But so are you, and I love you.  If you want kids, we can have kids."  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, clenching his free hand into a fist and then forcing it back open as he continued.  "I'm sure we can find someone for you...  I'm sure we can find someone to be their mother."  
  
There was a beat of silence as his words sank in.  Then Kylo sat up abruptly, "What? No!"  He dodged around the beam, narrowly avoiding hitting his head a second time that afternoon, and took Armitage's face in his hands.  "No, I meant adopt, I want to adopt kids.  Whatever you were thinking just now, no."  He pulled Armitage into his arms, running his hands over his back and bringing him closer until they were pressed flush, chest to chest with their legs tangled together.  "I'm not fucking anybody else and neither are you.  If you want little red-headed babies you better find one to adopt or figure out a way to get me pregnant."  He mouthed at Hux's shoulder, pinching and biting at him possessively, then sighed, closing his eyes and leaning their foreheads together.  "Jesus Christ Hux, you're not allowed to do anymore thinking right after sex."  
  
Hux just nodded against Kylo's forehead, eyes closed and smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A Tragedian in Spite of Himself" is a one act play by Anton Chekhov. A guy asks to borrow a revolver from a friend. The friend asks why and the guy starts to bitch about his terrible life. The friend makes sympathetic noises, then asks the guy to run some errands for him. The guy blows a gasket and starts chasing his friend around the room screaming that he wants blood. Lol, I love you Anton Chekhov.
> 
> "Flight" is a British aviation journal that has been in continuous publication since 1909.
> 
> Spanish engineer Juan de la Cierva developed the first successful rotorcraft in 1919.
> 
> Just to round off the history lesson for everyone: Armistice was declared with the Austro-Hungarian Empire on November 4, 1918 and with Germany on November 11, 1918.
> 
> Prior to WWI it was quite normal for young boys to wear dresses until they were somewhere between two and eight years old. When they started wearing pants it was called breeching and generally was related to when a boy was toilet trained and was expected to start working. This was common in both royal and ordinary households all over Europe so for Armitage to be confused is really pretty stupid but... I thought the whole thing was cute and wanted to make a thing out of it, so shoot me. There are pictures of the real Tsarevich Alexei Romanov in his lacy white dress on the Pinterest page.
> 
> I don't know enough about the fur trade to promote or condemn it. Siberian sable, especially the darker furs from the Barguzin region, were and still are the most valuable furs world-wide. Apparently fur farming is now used to breed animals for fur, making the whole thing more sustainable but... again, I don't know enough to comment. This is all fantasy from 1918 when environmental sustainability and animal cruelty weren't really things people thought about a ton.
> 
> Chapter eight is just a drabble of head-cannons and links to extras! You can find me on tumblr [harlanhardway](https://harlanhardway.tumblr.com/)


	8. Extra Author Ramble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is literally a ramble of all my head cannons and links to various things in case anyone is interested. I'm warning you, if you read this you might come away with the (perhaps not entirely inaccurate) impression that I am a crazy person.

 

**Within the Timeline of the Story**

 

1)  Cameos maybe no one caught: in chapter six Kylo refers to, "his uncle Chekrov, who grew his hair in great chops down the sides of his face and looked like he could go three rounds with a bear," this is totally Chewbacca.  Also in chapter six, Ben and Luke are visited by, "an English gentleman by the name of Count Pruit Oswald III.  He was a tall man, his manner stiff, formal and excruciatingly British," this is totally C3PO.  Get it?  Get it?  Eh?  Eh?

 

2)  In the epilogue Kylo talks about taking Armitage's last name.  In my head cannon, Armitage never asks for or expects this.  They get married pretty fast and Ben just kinda does it and they don't talk about it until this conversation in the epilogue, months later.  As time passes, Ben never denies that he was once the Tsarevich Benjamin Organev, but since taking Armitage's name and staying out of court life, most people don't know and he chooses not to enlighten them.

 

3)  In the epilogue they refer to having money.  I didn't research into the Romanov finances but I am assuming that some of their money was held in banks in England and Ben, despite abdicating, has access to some of these funds.  They don't have endless money, but it's not necessarily an insignificant amount either.

 

**Post-Epilogue**

 

1)  Hux is really smart and gets into aviation.  I'm not totally certain what he does in this field but I'm leaning towards something to do with aerial cartography and navigation.  He thinks it is totally ridiculous that pilots do things like follow highways and land in fields to ask directions.  Poe is involved in the business quite a bit.  Their personalities clash but they have a working relationship based on mutual respect.  Poe and Ben do not get along at all and mutually think of the other as kind of a dick, but they tolerate each other.

 

2)  Ben learns to fly and becomes a very good pilot.  He helps with Hux's research etc.  This also leads to Hux investing a great deal towards the development of the parachute.

 

3)  Ben and Armitage adopt three kids and when WWII breaks out the eldest two are eligible for the draft.  The youngest has a medical problem that makes him ineligible (IDK what exactly, but nothing debilitating).  The eldest survives but the middle child does not.  The middle child's widow and child move in with Armitage and Ben and it's generally a really hard time for the family (as it is for the whole of Europe) but they get through it and support each other.

 

4)  Armitage's aviation and navigation company survives into the 21st century and becomes a household name in western European aviation.

 

5) Ben writes a book of poetry in Russian and French.  None of them are love poems, but he dedicates it to Armitage anyway.  It's not super well known or particularly popular, but manages to stay in continuous publication into modern times and was even translated into English, something which Kylo only grudgingly consented to.

 

6) I don't really have any head cannons about what happens with Russia.  I don't think they ever go back, even to visit.  It would be very dangerous for Kylo to do so and they both stay as far away from Luke and Ray's machinations as possible.  I have no particular thoughts on how successful said machinations may or may not have been.

 

**Extras**

 

[Pintrest](https://www.pinterest.de/harlanhardway/its-always-winter-in-st-petersburg/) page with pictures of the real last Tsarevich of Imperial Russia, Alexei, as a toddler in his lacy white dress and later as a child in his hideously cute sailor suit, as well as a myriad of other historical reference photos etc.

 

[Title cards](https://harlanhardway.tumblr.com/post/160545145700/all-the-titlecards-together), all in one mass post.

 

Beautiful [moodboard](http://dobranocka.tumblr.com/post/160046439873/moodboard-for-its-always-winter-in-st-petersburg) made by the lovely [Ascel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ascel/pseuds/Ascel/) ([dobranocka](http://www.dobranocka.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr).

 

The most amazing [fan art](http://cylin-aka-ankamo.tumblr.com/post/163724966626/its-always-winter-in-st-petersburg-by) from chapter one, done by [Cylin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cylin/pseuds/Cylin)!! It's exactly what I imagined them to look like so go check it out!!

 

If you scroll through my "It's Always Winter in St. Petersburg" tab on Tumblr you can find some fan art I've done for my own thing but... it is of questionable quality so I'm not going to link to it directly...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for supporting me on this little venture, I've had a lot of fun writing it and if you've read this far, I assume you've enjoyed reading it as well! If you have any questions or comments or... whatever, feel free to drop me a line either through the comments or on Tumblr [harlanhardway](https://www.harlanhardway.tumblr.com/)!


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